Sunshine Almost Always
by SiennaSky
Summary: "You and I are real." His tone is as smooth and unyielding as marble—not a crack or divot to be found. "I don't know what's real when it comes to timelines. After all of the shifts and the changes we've seen, you have to wonder if there is a real timeline. Maybe they're all real. Maybe none of them are. But you and I? This? This is real." Companion to Fixed Points.
1. Prologue

So...I told a few people that I would write a follow-up to Fixed Points since there were some who were curious about the lives Lucy and Wyatt led in the timeline where Wyatt rescued Lucy after her car accident. You don't _really_ need to have read Fixed Points to follow this story — my goal was to write something that could be read in isolation or as a companion to the original. I apologize for the length of this monster, but once I started with these versions of these characters, I couldn't seem to stop. Many thanks to my writing pals who cheered me on as I trudged (and I do mean TRUDGED) through this process. And thanks to JennaKaylor for putting up with my incessant line of questioning.

I do realize that I'm posting this on Super Bowl Sunday, so there's a good chance no one will see it, but if there are any of you out there who AREN'T watching football, I hope this doesn't disappoint! I'll be posting the story in its entirety throughout the day and possibly into tomorrow, so please let me know what you think!

* * *

 **SUNSHINE ALMOST ALWAYS**

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

 **Part of Beginning to Understand**

* * *

 **~2003~**

 _You ready for this?_

 _Ready as I'll ever be._

Those were the final words he and his grandfather had exchanged before he hopped into his old beater and hit the highway, bound for California. And all because of a mysterious telegram.

He doesn't believe in fate. But this tattered slip of paper has him wondering.

The telegram in question is falling apart now. It's been crumpled and folded and smoothed and read more times than he can count. And he's certain that the prolonged dip in the chilly river water a couple of weeks ago hadn't done it any favors. Now it's oddly brittle and swollen after being waterlogged for so long. And...it might also be nearly thirty years old. Maybe?

He tugs the small square from his wallet and gently unfolds it. For the thousandth time at least, he lets his eyes rove over the now-familiar letters that can barely be ascertained through faint spread of the bleeding ink.

It still doesn't make any sense, and yet he's here, waiting to meet up with the girl he pulled out of a car in a river at the exact time and in the exact place that the telegram mentions.

 _Western Union Telegram_

 _July 25, 1974_

 _Wyatt,_

 _This message is going to catch you by surprise…_

 _You don't know me yet, but you will someday…_

 _You're thinking of joining the Army. Do it…_

 _You're thinking of moving to California. Do it…_

 _This won't make any sense now, but it will all make sense when the time comes…_

 _You need this, Wyatt..._

 _If you save her, she can save you..._

He's still not sure what he's doing with her. He'd been mortified by his performance, or lack thereof, during the dinner her mother had invited him to attend as a thank you, but something had possessed him to ask her to join him for coffee. Maybe it was his wounded pride—his desire to show that he's normally not such a wreck of a human being. Except that he is.

She's cute. Actually, she's beautiful in a really unassuming way, but he's guessing she doesn't get told very often. Even in jeans and a sweater, there's an elegance to her—a refinement that distinguishes her from the girls he's always known. She's a long series of contradictions. She's shy but confident, she's brilliant but humble, she's rigid but spirited, and she's sure as hell the most graceful klutz he's ever known.

It hadn't taken more than five minutes in open, airy, polished warmth of their large house for him to feel the chilly wisps of doubt worming into his mind and heart. Carol Preston seemed to have that effect. He'd seen Lucy's spirit—her humor and her light—fade when her mother looked at her just-so. And he'd be lying if he said he hadn't felt it too. He'd felt the pressure of her stern, appraising stare. He'd seen the disapproval in the way she'd pressed her lips into a hard line when he had described his military plans. He'd seen the flush on Lucy's face and the mortification in her dark eyes when her mother had politely and silently dismissed his potential to become anything more than a passer-by in their lives.

And he'd adored the complete disregard thirteen year old Amy had shown for every bit of the palpable tension hanging heavily over the table when she had announced through a mouthful of steamed vegetables that she thought soldiers were hot and Lucy could use some fun. The sight of Lucy, her head in her hands, grumbling through her mortification and threatening her younger sister's life, had brought a smile to his face. So in spite of Carol Preston's continued assault on his worthiness—all delivered with a sugary tone and a plastic smile, mind you—he had smiled openly at Lucy, who had looked utterly ashamed, and shaken his head.

"I'm going to be in Van Nuys for the next month or two...staying with a cousin until I head to basic. Do you mind if I call you? Or text you? We could maybe get some coffee...or something?"

A split-second flare of surprise lights her face, and then she nods slowly, the surprise gradually giving way to a genuine smile. There's a long pause before she seems to shake herself free of the mild trance she's in, and then a reply rattles out of her.

"Sure...uh...yeah," she agrees, dark eyes glittering prettily. "That would be nice."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated!**


	2. Part One

**PART ONE**

 **Let Me Drown in Your Laughter**

* * *

 **~2003~**

"Come on, Lucy. You've got this," she mumbles under her breath.

A bell jingles loudly overhead as she gives the heavy door a tug. Stepping out of the brisk persistence of the slight winter chill, she nearly leaps into the welcoming warmth of the small shop. It's like walking into a wall of sensory decadence, and her eyes fall closed for a full second as she takes a deep breath, inhaling the rich aroma of whole coffee beans. The place is bustling, and she's surrounded by a cacophony of sounds: the sputter of steaming milk, the whir of grinding beans, and the hum of chattering patrons. The bustling activity helps to lessen the fluttering sensation she feels in her stomach, and she swallows nervously as she scans searchingly through the smattering of tables.

It's been two weeks since her accident. Two weeks since she nearly drowned. Two weeks since a boy named Wyatt Logan appeared out of nowhere, for reasons she still doesn't quite understand, and then pulled her from the sinking wreckage of her car. Two weeks since she decided that near-death was sign enough to give up her whimsical and uncharacteristic hopes of becoming a musician. Two weeks since she rerouted herself and returned to the much-beaten path towards a career in academia.

Two weeks of her mother's incessant line of questioning: _What were you thinking, Lucy? Why were you coming home in the middle of the quarter? Do you realize what could have happened? Do you know how disappointing this is for me? Don't you understand your own potential? And what about the plans we've made for you?_

That last one is the kicker.

Her life has always felt like a continuous series of loops. She falls into the habits and routines her mother has dictated to her for her entire life, and every time she attempts to climb her way out of the monotony, she falls right back into The Plan, right back into the next rotation in a long series of predictable circles. Every choice, every action always brings her back to The Plan. Round and round she goes.

It's been one week since Wyatt Logan joined her family for what she still considers to be a _disastrous_ Saturday night dinner. Her mother had gone on and on about her disappointment in the choices that had led Lucy right into that river, and then she had questioned Wyatt about his ambitions and his plans. He'd been polite if a little uncertain, and Lucy had wanted to die at her mother's barely-veiled disdain for his choice to join the military rather than attend college. Amy's candid comments on Lucy's lack of social life and her blatant attempts to flirt with Wyatt on Lucy's behalf had been the bright red cherry of humiliation atop the sundae of mortification.

Which is why Lucy had been so baffled when Wyatt had informed her that he was killing time before heading to basic training, that he was going to crash at a cousin's studio apartment in Van Nuys, and that he'd like to see her again in L.A.

After stammering a response with all the smoothness of a rogue jackhammer, she assumed she would never _actually_ hear from him again. And then three evenings later, her phone had trilled and rattled across the pages of her Poli Sci textbook with an invitation to join him for coffee.

She spots him near a window, his head bent and his thumbs tapping furiously at the keys on his small Nokia phone. Straightening her shoulders and manufacturing what she hopes is a look of breezy confidence, she winds through the convoluted maze of bistro tables until she appears at his side.

"Important text message?" she asks with a friendly smile.

His head snaps up, a look of surprise on his face, and then he meets her friendly smile with a tilted one of his own. "No, ma'am," he replies. "Just an intense game of Snake."

A laugh bubbles from her throat at that, and the tilt of his smile shifts into balance as it morphs into a full-blown grin. "You're telling me you've never gotten absorbed in that game?"

"Oh, I'm a pro," she assures him. "That game coaxed me through dozens of mind-numbingly monotonous college lectures." She pauses for a moment, ponderous. "Dr. Sutherland," she finally remarks with a sort of absent nostalgia. "The most boring man alive."

Wyatt's smile has faded a bit, and his expression is a bit more distant. Lucy realizes almost instantly that he's probably lost interest already, and she hasn't even sat down. "Sorry," she remarks quickly. "I have a tendency to ramble when it comes to school."

He shakes his head, and the motion seems to jostle the faraway look from his eyes. He gestures to the empty seat, realizing that she's still standing. "I'm just surprised," he assures her. "I would have guessed that you'd be in the front row taking notes on your notes."

She can feel herself flushing the tiniest bit at the accuracy of his remark, and she chuckles as she sits down, shrugging out of her light pea-coat. "You would be right in most cases," she admits. "But Dr. Sutherland was teaching from my mom's book. I pretty much ate, slept, and breathed that book along with her as she was writing it. It was my life for almost two years. The last thing I needed was to have it steal another three months of my time."

He's watching her now, the tiniest half-smile on his face and in his eyes, and she fights the urge to squirm awkwardly from beneath the warm ray of his gaze.

"So…" she starts, already fretting over the silence that's befallen them.

He's _so_ handsome, with a strangely likable sort of irreverence, and so unlike the boys she's dated before. She's used to preppy boys—all buttoned-up and from the "right" families because it's the only type of dating her mother has ever allowed. There'd been Blake, the son of her mother's best friend who'd given her her first kiss — and then given kisses to nearly every other girl in the sophomore class. Then there had been Michael Garrison, the object of her hopeless crush, who had taken her on one date and tried to feel her up before turning around and taking Emily Farrell to the prom. And most recently there had been Garrett, her first and only serious relationship. They had started dating just after graduation, after a series of dinner parties had brought their families together on a regular basis. He was older than her, about to begin his senior year at USC just as she was about to start her freshman year at UCLA. He'd been a trailblazer—the purveyor of many memorable firsts for Lucy Preston. First backseat make-out. First frat party. First time in love. _First_ _time._ And then first broken heart when he had informed her following his graduation that their relationship had run its course and that he wasn't interested in pursuing anything long-distance as he headed off to graduate school at Stanford.

Her agony over the end of her relationship with Garrett had led to her rebellious fling with the infamous Alec and his band. And _that_ had ended with her car in a rushing river. Which had led her here. To Wyatt. And while he's not like any of the boys she's dated, something tells her he's better.

She smiles at him, feeling bashful as they watch each other wordlessly.

"I'm glad you're here" he remarks finally, his smile widening with the admission.

She feels herself smiling in return, and she swallows the girlish giggle that threatens to escape. "So am I."

* * *

Her face falls a bit when he tells her he's headed to Georgia in less than six weeks, and he can't stop his stomach from engaging in a nauseating series of calisthenics when he thinks she looks disappointed by the thought of his departure. There's a long list of people in his life who have looked relieved by the promise of his absence: ex-girlfriends, teachers, principals, and his father, to name a few. Lucy barely knows him, and she already looks saddened by the knowledge that he'll be gone soon. The thought that she might actually dread his exit fills him with an unfamiliar kind of warmth—like a spoonful of hot oatmeal or a sip of hot cocoa on a cold morning. There's something satisfying about it, and he thinks he likes it.

She's recounting a story about how her clumsiness led to her breaking her ankle on a camping trip when she was ten when he glances out the window and sees nothing but darkness. A quick look down at his watch reveals that they've been sitting for nearly six hours. He's startled. It feels like it's been twenty minutes.

His cheeks are actually sore from the amount of smiling he's done. She's different. He's seen girls like her before. They were the girls he'd seen in the school hallways. The ones who would peek around their locker doors to give him the occasional admiring glance as he passed but would never seriously consider anything more than that. They were the girls who spent their weekends doing community service and taking SAT prep courses, while he was out drinking and street-racing with his buddies. They were the ones he never encountered in his classes because they were on the AP track and he was in the principal's office — usually explaining his way out of yet another suspension. They were the girls he and his buddies joked about and referred to as The Untouchables, but really they had all known that girls like that were only untouchable for guys like them.

He walks her to her car—a Toyota Highlander so new that it still has the dealer plates—and he's relieved when she pulls him into a hug. He's never done this before, never spent time with a girl without an endgame in mind. He doesn't know what he wants from her, from this. He just knows he wants to spend more time with her, and he wants to take any steps necessary to see her again. She's soft and warm, and the fabric of her coat brushes against his jaw. He feels a mounting sense of panic at the idea that this could be a one-off, so he assures her, "I'll call you tomorrow."

Her shy smile is encouragement enough.

He convinces himself that it's only because he's bored that he breaks down and calls her just three hours later.

They talk all night.

* * *

He and Lucy meet again — this time at the In-N-Out just off campus because she's got a short break between classes but neither of them wants to forgo the chance to see each other again. She introduces him to the wonder of the Double-Double with Animal-Style fries, and he tells her all about his high school shenanigans and his fateful breakdown in front of the recruiting station, which led to his choice to join the Army. He worries for a moment that his truthfulness about his youthful stupidity will have her running for her life, but she seems strangely intrigued by his mischief. Jealous almost.

"You just walked out? During your final exams?"

She's looking at him, disbelieving, and he can't help but chuckle at the fact that after telling her sordid tales about street-racing and on-campus drunkenness and one memorable stint in a juvenile detention center, she's most horrified by his willingness to sabotage his academic career.

He gives her a lopsided smile and a one-shoulder shrug to match. "I wasn't exactly in the running for valedictorian," he points out. "I knew I'd pass the class without that test, and I just wanted to graduate and get the hell out of there."

She's wearing a knowing smile, and her dark eyes are twinkling with a glimmer of play.

"What?" he pries. "What's with the smile?"

She shakes her head, but her smile remains. "You were the bad boy—the one all the girls had secret crushes on. I know you. I was one of those girls."

"Oh, so you had a crush on me? And here I was thinking that we just met," he mocks her with faux disbelief.

She rolls her eyes and corrects him, "Actually, his name was Jake. And I was one of hundreds of girls with a secret crush on him. Although I don't know if it was him so much as his attitude. I think we were all just jealous that he didn't seem to give a damn."

"So you never dated Jake?" he clarifies curiously.

Laughter erupts from her as she exclaims, "God, no!" She adds thoughtfully, "Looking back, I'm not sure he even knew I existed. I wasn't exactly at the center of the social scene in high school. I had a few dates here and there, but I didn't even have my first serious boyfriend until I graduated."

He nods, "I get it. I mean, I dated here and there," he pauses to toss his crumpled straw wrapper at her when he sees her look of blatant skepticism, and then he continues, "but I really only had one serious girlfriend. Jessica. We actually broke up right before I came out here."

She snags one of the crispy remains from his carton of fries, and pops it into her mouth before agreeing. She remarks casually, "Garrett dumped me last summer. He didn't want to do the long-distance thing. Which is bullshit because he's at Stanford and my mom is a professor there—I'm _from_ Palo Alto. But whatever. I guess I should be grateful for the flimsy attempt to spare my feelings."

She fiddles idly with the gold necklace she's always wearing as she recounts the memory, rubbing her fingers over the pendant and zipping it back and forth over the tiny links of the gold chain.

"What's up with the necklace?" he asks curiously before taking a sip of his Coke. "You play with it a lot."

"It was my grandmother's," she explains. "My dad gave it to me after she died. She and I were very close, and this is really the only thing I have left of her. It's sort of a good luck charm. I know it sounds childish, but I feel like she's looking out for me when I wear it, you know?"

He doesn't know. His mom is gone, and he doesn't have a single item left of hers. His cousin Kyle has been cool enough to let him crash on his couch, but he's relatively unconcerned with Wyatt's wellbeing—aside from giving him a hushed "Nice!" and offering a high-five after meeting Lucy for the first time. The only living person in his family who's ever truly looked out for him is Sherwin. And theirs isn't exactly a relationship of closeness and heirloom knick-knacks. He can't think of a single item he owns that he feels the need to protect. There's nothing that ties him to anyone in his family, nothing to serve as a tangible reminder that someone loves—or loved—him.

But he doesn't tell Lucy that. Instead, he just nods.

* * *

They're three weeks into their unexpected dive into this odd no-man's-land of something more than friendship but less than romance when she finally asks about his father. They're sitting in his truck in a metered parking spot after getting ice cream sandwiches from Diddy Riese, and she's licking the remains of her strawberry ice cream from the last chunk of snickerdoodle cookie when it happens.

"Tell me about your father," she urges.

When she won't accept the vagueness he typically uses to avoid these conversations, the ugly truth comes pouring out of him with all the force of water blasting from a hydrant. He's direct in describing his father as an asshole, and the rage he feels as he recounts the years of physical and emotional abuse causes him to quiver all over, from the slight ruffle in his tone to the barely perceptible tremor in his fingertips.

To her credit, she's quiet the entire time. She doesn't ask him to stop, and she doesn't interrupt him with platitudes and reassurances. She just lets him talk. And when he finishes, and he looks up at her, he sees that her face is twisted with the pain of her compassion. He sees that she aches for that younger version of him, the boy in a ball on the ground, fending off his father's fists. The boy in the trunk of the car, rolling from side to side as the vehicle rollicks down the road. The boy with large tools clutched in his small hands, trying valiantly to assess the problem with the engine as his father looms over him, a dark presence behind the bright beam of a flashlight.

Finally, she takes a breath and swipes quickly at the dampness in her eyes and gives him a delicate smirk. "You _stole_ his car?"

"It's not something I'm proud of," he mutters begrudgingly.

"You sure seemed proud when you described it," she retorts doubtfully. She adds, with a touch of admiration, "Sounds like he deserved that and more." And then she reaches over and gives his hand a squeeze.

He surprises himself when he doesn't refuse or evade the sweet gesture.

He surprises himself even more when he doesn't let go. Not until he drops her off in front of her next class.

* * *

He hears her sing for the first time when they're stuck in traffic on the 405. He's driving her car because she's tired from pulling an all-nighter but insists on treating him to a touristy evening in Santa Monica. They've been sitting at a dead stop on the freeway for nearly thirty minutes, having moved only a half a mile in that span of time. He's pretty sure she's asleep in the passenger seat since she's turned on her side, her cheek resting against the headrest, her eyes closed serenely. He's startled when she reaches out to crank the volume on an old Stevie Nicks song, and he's even more startled when she sings along, her eyes still closed. Her voice is clear and powerful and unsurprisingly sweet when the melody dips into the softer, more intimate moments of the song.

"You could do that professionally," he remarks, his eyes on the blinding red flurry of brake lights as the traffic crawls along.

"That ship has sailed," she remarks lazily, stretching in a catlike motion against the seatbelt. She catches him off guard by casually taking his free hand and lacing her fingers with his, and she tells him the story of Alec, the guy who'd invited her to join his band and then dumped her for being wound too tightly. She maintains an airy tone as she relays the tale, but he can sense the lingering sting of the experience. It's clear that she's always been the good girl and the dutiful daughter, but it's also clear that the both titles are burdens she has wished to shirk at different points in her life. He likes that about her.

"Alec is an asshole," Wyatt states matter-of-factly, his voice gruff with disdain. "And the other ex...what was his name? Garrett? He's a dumb shit too."

His reaction is the correct one if the dip of her eyes and the subtly appreciative smile are any indication.

* * *

He introduces her to Sherwin that night, over the telephone at least, because the old man calls while they're walking down the boardwalk. Annoyed by the third-degree he's getting from his grandfather, who apparently thinks he's joined some kind of California crime syndicate due to his radio-silence, he hands the phone off to Lucy. She gapes at him for a long moment before lifting the phone to her ear and uttering a hesitant greeting. She's both sweet and snarky as she recaps her Wyatt-related adventures so far, and Wyatt can hear the old man's charmed guffaws through the phone. He's unsurprised when Sherwin calls him the next morning, totally smitten, declaring, "She's a good one — pretty as well as smart. Those ones are few and far between. And she's already got you figured out, which makes her one in about six billion."

"Pretty? You haven't even seen her," Wyatt points out. He certainly can't argue with the old man's assertion, but he's not about to let his grandpa know that.

"I wasn't talking about her looks, kid. But if she's a fraction as pretty on the outside as she is on the inside, you'd better wise up real quick and do something about it. Don't be an idiot."

"She's not really my type," Wyatt argues halfheartedly. And it's true. At least historically. Lucy Preston is the virtual opposite of nearly every girl he's ever dated.

"Of course she's not," Sherwin agrees. "Why do you think I like her so much?"

"She's too good for me," Wyatt continues stubbornly. "A total goody-two-shoes."

"Yup," Sherwin agrees. "Probably."

Wyatt isn't even offended. Instead he just scoffs, "Have you been drinking? You're not making any sense, old man."

"Of course I haven't been drinking!" Sherwin barks. "I know exactly what I'm saying. And you're right. She's too good for the drunk and delinquent version of you that left here. But I think she might be just right for the person you're lookin' to be."

* * *

He attends a lecture with her exactly one time before she bans him for being a bad influence.

Sure, he's quiet. But the very sight of him with her draws a certain amount of attention from her classmates who are used to her being the go-to student for the professor when no one is supplying the correct response to a question. Five minutes into the lecture, she's perched on the edge of her seat, slanted over her notebook, her pen scrawling an impossibly fast train of key ideas and important dates, while he's reclined casually, his arm draped over the back of her chair as he watches her in action. There's a lull in her note-taking then, so he surreptitiously scratches a tic-tac-toe board in the margin of her notebook, and she allows herself to be sucked into a battle that frames her notes with a litany of X's and O's.

When she arrives home and realizes that she missed half the content of the lecture, she calls him to tell him he's no longer allowed to accompany her.

"I can be quiet. I'll leave you alone," he promises.

"That's the problem," she insists. "I don't want you to. I'd much rather destroy you at tic-tac-toe than listen to Thurman drone on and on about Reaganomics. But I need that A. And that's not going to happen if my notes are more X's and O's than actual words."

"X's and O's, huh?" Wyatt remarks suggestively.

Lucy can practically _hear_ the wiggle of his eyebrows over the phone. "You're an idiot," she deadpans in response.

He agrees to meet her after class from that point on.

* * *

She asks him to go hiking in Malibu on sunny Saturday, and while he's surprised that _Lucy_ has invited him _hiking_ of all things, he's not about to turn down the chance to spend some one-on-one time with her.

They haven't been gone for more than thirty minutes when she trips on an exposed tree root and tweaks her ankle. He's got her by the waist and is helping her to hobble the rest of the way back to the car, when he stops short and glances around in confusion. "Is that…? Sorry, but have we traveled in time or something? What the hell is that?"

A rusty old military ambulance is parked in the brush, the walls of its tires caked in the red dust that surrounds it. The vehicle is a dingy military green, but the red cross is still vivid on its rear.

She smiles up at him and shrugs. "It's part of the old M*A*S*H set. I know it's sort of lame, but I figured you might appreciate it."

The bright blue of his eyes is intense in the sunshine, and it brightens even further with his apparent delight. Is it cheesy? Yes. But is it also adorably thoughtful of her? Absolutely. He's not exactly accustomed to such gestures. "Lame? This is awesome. Sherwin used to make me sit through M*A*S*H marathons with him. Is there more?"

She nods sheepishly before glancing down at her ankle. He gives her an affectionate squeeze with the arm he has anchored around her waist. "We'll come back," he assures her. The assurance is made without thought, without reservation. It suggests a future that neither of them want to think too much about for fear of it disappearing into thin air like cloud of smoke.

They carve a stuttered path back to where her car is parked, her weight against him as she pushes on with an uneven gait. He glances over at her concentrated expression and chuckles.

"You fall a lot," he informs her. He's teasing her, but he sees the plumes of red flush appear on her cheeks and realizes she's genuinely embarrassed.

"Sorry," she apologizes sheepishly. "I figured I could handle something as simple as, you know, walking."

"Hey," he admonishes gently. "I'm not complaining. It was an observation." He shrugs. "It's charming. I mean, you've got a million other things going for you, so the universe had to even the score somehow."

Her cheeks burn even hotter and she shakes her head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're brilliant, you're witty, you're kind, and, well, you're not exactly hideous, Lucy."

"Not hideous? Wow," Lucy remarks awkwardly, tucking a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. "Just keep it coming."

Wyatt rolls his eyes, annoyed by his own lack of clarity, and attempts to backpedal, "Come on, you know you're beautiful, alright?"

He's surprised by her surprise. "What?" he wonders.

"I just...don't really think of myself that way," she admits. "I see myself as more of a nerd."

Wyatt says nothing — just looks at her with soft fondness—as they finally arrive at her car.

A shrill beeping sound slices into their conversation, and she looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to react. "Aren't you going to answer that?" she asks pointedly, her gaze nudging his attention to his phone. "It's not a big deal," she assures him. "My parents were forever having to answer pages and phone calls when I was a kid." She shrugs good-naturedly. "I'm used to it."

Tugging the phone out of his pocket, he sees that it's Jessica. "No," he replies. "It's not important."

"It's Jessica, isn't it?" she remarks plainly. "You've been getting quite a few calls from her lately."

Wyatt decides there's no point in beating around the bush. Why hide it?

"She's having second thoughts about us," he admits. He thinks maybe, just maybe, a hint of worry flashes in Lucy's eyes at his words.

"Are _you_?" Lucy questions pointedly, in a tone that is curious without being pressing.

He doesn't even hesitate. "No. That was never going to be anything serious. We want different things out of life. I think she's just panicking because this is the first time in a long time that she's been on her own. It's not about me. It's about her."

"And what is it that you want exactly?" Lucy presses gently.

Wyatt turns to face her, and looks at her, takes in the sight of her, for several long moments. She's watching him closely, her head tilted, her dark ponytail falling messily over one shoulder as she wavers awkwardly on one foot, attempting to maintain her balance on her good ankle. Her dark eyes shine with patience and sincerity as she awaits his response.

"I'm still figuring it out," he answers finally, reaching out to steady her before she topples. "But I'm realizing that what I want now is totally different than what I used to want." The corner of his mouth hitches slightly in an amused half-smile. "My tastes are changing."

The half-smile becomes full-blown at the sound of Lucy's muttered response.

"Yeah. So are mine."

* * *

He invites her over for dinner on his last night of freedom. Kyle works nights as a bartender in Silver Lake, and he's more than happy to relinquish the tiny studio apartment to Wyatt for the night, so Wyatt chooses to ignore the congratulatory grin and smack on the back his older cousin gives him before he leaves for his shift.

"We're just friends, man," Wyatt insists. "She's not even my type. Lucy's too much of a good girl."

"Sure," Kyle nods, a knowing smile on his face. "Sure, man. Enjoy your night. But stick to the couch, alright? And say hi to Lucy for me, okay? I'm sure I'll see her again, but it might be awhile with you gone."

Dinner is nothing fancy. They order pizza and raid the stash of beers in Kyle's fridge.

He'd like to blame the beer for what happens next, but the truth of the matter is his tolerance for alcohol is absurdly high for someone his age, so the comfortable fuzziness that settles around his mind can only be attributed to the nearness of her. And he knows that Lucy has only had one drink, so their actions are theirs to own.

The first kiss is soft and sloppy. He's describing his most recent session with Kyle at the apartment complex gym, and she's laughing hysterically at the description of an equipment mishap that landed Kyle belly-up on the floor. He's not sure what possesses him to close the gap between them, but he does it without a second thought. He stops just centimeters short of her lips, the pause serving as a question—one that Lucy answers with the breathless press of her mouth to his. Their lips are off-center and their bodies are off-balance, and she laughs softly into his mouth, amused by her own eagerness, while he chuckles in return, reveling in the feel of her falling into him, nearly landing in his lap.

The second kiss is a calculated correction. While it lacks the impulsivity that drove the first, it possesses a precision and a practiced technique that leaves them both craving closeness. She's soft and searching, playful at times, while he nips gently, one hand splayed over the delicate edge of her jaw as she squeezes the fistfuls of shirt she's clutching at his chest.

The third is the match strike that sets them both ablaze. She grows bolder and more confident, and he can feel her hands drifting, falling, before settling at his waist. He lets his own lips wander from her reddened lips to the enticing softness of her pale neck, and he swallows the groan that threatens to escape when she tilts her head to grant him access as his hands suddenly find themselves beneath her shirt and sweeping up her back, his fingertips brushing dangerously against the silky edging of her bra.

Neither of them notices the grind of the key in the lock or the quiet wiggle of the doorknob as it turns. But they definitely notice when Kyle steps into the apartment and lets out a surprised, "Whoa! Uh...okay. I just forgot my phone and was on my break, so I decided to come and grab it and...uh...carry on." He smiles at the two of them and then turns to Wyatt, his tone teasing. "Thought you said she wasn't your type, man. Guess you don't mind a good girl after all." It doesn't take him more than five seconds to snag his phone from the kitchen counter and retrace his path to the door. The lock flips over and his footfalls fade down the hallway, but the damage has been done.

Wyatt is livid and mortified and panicked all in the same instant. Kyle is an idiot. A well-meaning idiot, but an idiot just the same. He avoids looking at Lucy for several seconds because he knows what he'll see and he's not sure he can bear it. When he finally summons the courage to lift his eyes to hers, it's even worse than he thought.

She looks irritated, which...yeah. That makes sense. But worse than that is the hurt he sees flickering somewhere deep in her eyes, like a candle in a dark and distant corner. Then with the gusty whoosh of reality, the flicker fades and nothing but the smoky coils of annoyance and regret remain. "I should go," she murmurs quietly. "We both got carried away and...it's probably a good thing he came in."

No, Wyatt thinks. No, it wasn't a good thing. Good is where they'd been headed before his asshat of a cousin had interrupted. Good is what his life has been since he had the balls to ask her to coffee. Good is what she is. And not in the way he'd implied to Kyle in a misguided effort to downplay his feelings for her. She's _good_. She's _goodness._ And he wants her more than he's ever wanted anything or anyone before because she makes him feel like he might be more than the piece of shit he's always written himself off to be.

She's tugging her coat on and gathering her purse. Her fingers are fiddling and twining around the long leather strap of the bag as she turns to him uncertainly. "Let's talk later," she says finally, her words huffed out like she's using her last breath to utter them. She leaves like a gust of wind — all flushed cheeks and stammered apologies and averted gazes. He sits dumbly, his mouth agape, as she unlocks the door and slips out, closing it softly behind her.

He panics. He's been down this road. Several times. With several girls. It always ends the same way. And it sucks. But usually it's because _he's_ ready to end things. This? This is making his palms sweat and his ears ring. This is making his heart pound thunderously in his chest. This is robbing him of breath. The thought of losing Lucy nearly knocks the wind out of him.

The apartment settles a moment after the front door closes behind her, and he thinks maybe she sucked all of the air out of the room when she left, because he still can't breathe.

And then he's left with one terrifying thought.

Maybe it's for the best.

* * *

His flight leaves at eight o'clock the next morning. He doesn't remind her. He doesn't do good-byes, and he figures last night may have been the best way to end things. This is sort of the way his life goes. Every time something good is dangled in front of him, it blows up in spectacularly destructive form right before his very eyes.

She shows up anyway. _Well, shit._

She looks soft and rumpled and messy, and all he can think of when he sees her is how he'd just like to crawl into her bed with her and hold her as they go back to sleep. The urge is an uncomfortable one. She's his friend. He's not supposed to feel this way about her. They aren't supposed to do the kinds of things they did last night. He shouldn't be feeling this...softness...like his insides are made of putty. He should be able to control the creeping rise of the smile that starts at the mere thought of her.

But then he sees her face. And she's pissed.

Her face is screwed into a pretty intimidating scowl, and her voice is shrill when she finally reaches his side. "Really, Wyatt? Really?! You were just going to leave without so much as a good-bye? And you really thought that I wouldn't show up? Like I haven't been dreading this day for the past six weeks?" Her voice is high-pitched and terse, and it immediately sets him on edge. Then she grumbles, "If that's not an asshole move…"

"I didn't want you to feel like you had to wake up at the crack of dawn to show up." He pauses and then adds in a low tone, "And I wasn't sure you'd want to anyway."

"Bullshit," she remarks harshly.

"Look, I didn't want things to be awkward after last night…" he starts to explain, a hint of desperation shading his words.

"And _there's_ the truth. Wyatt, I'm a big girl. It's not your fault. We just got...caught up in the moment. I'm not…" she trails off, uncertain of how to proceed. "I'm not what you want, and I get that. And it's probably for the best." She releases a half-hearted laugh that dies off before it's finished. "I'll probably be in school for the rest of my life. You and I just aren't right for each other. And that's fine."

She shrugs, and he can see the hurt, the uncertainty that still lingers, those faint and flickering shadows over her face. He can also see that she is genuinely unaware of just how wrong she is. It just makes him want her more.

She continues kindly, graciously, "But that doesn't mean we can't be friends. I wanted to give you this...well, it's more of a loan, actually."

She holds out a closed fist, waiting for his outstretched hand, and he catches the golden glint of the locket she drops in his hand.

"Lucy, what's this?" He's already shaking his head, ready to refuse this trinket he knows means so much of her.

"It's a guarantee," she answers. "You know how much I love this locket. I know you won't let anything happen to it. I know you'll be careful and ensure that it comes back to me in one piece." Her eyes are fixed on his toes as she hurries breathlessly through the explanation. She shrugs and lifts her eyes to his. "Unless this is one of those disappear and drift away situations. Am I putting a wrench in your plan? Because if that's the case…"

"No!" His response is quick and sharp, and she flinches slightly at the outburst before chuckling. He continues, "No, Lucy. This has been...you've been…" He fumbles clumsily through his mental Rolodex of words and comes up empty-handed. He takes a step toward her, closing the small amount of distance between them, and he fixes his eyes on hers. "You might be the best friend I've ever had, Lucy. I've never talked to anyone, spent time with anyone, the way I have with you. It's just so...easy to be with you. I don't want to say good-bye to you. _That's_ why I didn't remind you about today."

He thinks her face falls for a moment, and his heart plummets at the sight. She's one of the most important people in the world to him, but he's falling short in his efforts to convey that to her.

"Wyatt? I know it's just boot camp and that the dangerous stuff is still around the corner, but...promise me you'll be careful?"

"Is that code for 'Don't do anything stupid'?"

"Maybe," she admits begrudgingly. "But seriously."

He gives her a playful salute and nods. "Yes, ma'am."

Her smile is sad, and he's caught off guard when she lifts her arms to pull him into a hug. She's warm and her hair tickling his cheek and he can smell the the light floral of her fabric softener as he presses his nose into the fabric of her sweatshirt. Their separation is reluctant, and he has to avoid her eyes when he sees them shining with her tears. He clenches his fist around her necklace, and he focuses on the solid press of the pendant against his palm.

He's pretty proud of himself when he only turns back twice as he walks away.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated!**


	3. Part Two

**PART TWO**

 **Come Let Me Love You**

* * *

 **~2007~**

"You've got mail, girl."

Lucy doesn't hear the announcement over the strumming sounds of "Rocky Mountain High" blaring through her earbuds. She jumps when an envelope sails through the air, landing with a slap and a skid across the open pages of the journal article she's annotating. Glancing up, she sees Julia, her redheaded loudmouth of a roommate, watching her with crossed arms and a knowing smile. "G.I. Gorgeous writes again, huh?"

Lucy rolls her eyes and tugs her earbuds out of her ears before picking up the envelope. Joy surges instantly from her heart to the tips of her fingers and toes when she sees her name formed by the rickety letters that line the front of the envelope. That boxy handwriting is practically tattooed on her brain.

"You know how it feeds his ego when you call him that. Last time he was here, he kept trying to insist that I call him that. He doesn't need the flattery. And he's my friend, Jules. He's pretty much my best friend."

"I can't believe the two of you still write actual letters. I mean, I know you're all about the past, but you realize things have progressed, right? Why don't you try emailing or texting?"

Lucy shakes her head and smiles down at the envelope, brushing off her friend's skepticism. "We do text and email when we can, but letters actually work better when he's deployed. Besides, I like handwritten letters. There's something more personal about putting pen to paper. I like seeing ink smudges and imperfect handwriting. He knows that, so he humors me. It just feels more real for some reason.."

"Feels more _romantic_ , you mean," Julia singsongs, her messy top-knot wobbling as she shakes her head teasingly.

"We're friends," Lucy repeats firmly.

"You send him care packages," Julia points out dryly. She settles against the door frame, looking quite comfortable in yoga pants and a Stanford t-shirt. This could take awhile.

"Who else is going to do it? His grandfather isn't exactly the sentimental type," Lucy insists. She knows that Sherwin sends the occasional note, but more often than not he depends on Lucy to keep him apprised of the goings-on in Wyatt's life. She likes to call him and fill him in each time she receives a letter, and oftentimes he'll relay short messages that he feels are pressing enough to be shared. She and Sherwin have become something of a team in their shared mission to support and love Wyatt Logan.

But Julia remains undeterred and the verbal rally continues. "He sends you survival kits for finals."

Lucy scoffs, "He sends me coffee and snacks. Mostly because he knows I'll wither and die in a forgotten corner of the library if he doesn't."

"He sent you flowers for your birthday."

"Yellow roses mean friendship."

Julia rolls her eyes skeptically before looking pointedly at the framed photo on Lucy's desk. It's the one Sherwin had taken of them when Wyatt had graduated from Basic Training. The one of the two of them laughing like idiots at the camera she stands tucked into his side, his arm looped familiarly around her narrow waist, gripping the fabric of her dress like he's afraid she'll disappear.

She still remembers agonizing over her choice to wear that striped sundress. She can vividly recall her efforts to tame her hair into unusually sleek waves. And she can still picture the admiring look Wyatt had given her when he'd seen her that day. She remembers the way his buddies had looked at _him_ upon meeting _her._ And she remembers the way he _hadn't_ corrected a single one of the incorrect references to her as Wyatt's girlfriend. It's the reason the dress is still hanging in her closet despite the fact that it has long since gone out of style.

"Have you told him about Mr. Right Now?" Julia wonders innocently.

"Will you stop calling him that? He has a name." Lucy finally slams her book shut and sits up.

Julia prods further. "So does it bother _Noah_ that you have a framed photo of yourself with a guy who isn't him?"

"Why should it? He knows all about Wyatt. And Noah and I...we just aren't like that."

"What? Romantic? Yeah, I've noticed. He's drop-dead gorgeous, Lucy. He's a med student. He treats you like a queen. Your mom actually approves. You should be in the head-over-heels-just-want-to-spend-all-your-time-together phase. Instead, you two are just...boring."

Lucy rolls her eyes. "You're as bad as Amy, you know that? What I _meant_ is that we aren't jealous. Not every relationship has to be nonstop passion and desire. Noah and I get along. We enjoy each other's company. We have similar aspirations."

"My God. Stop. I'm dying of jealousy," Julia deadpans. She shakes her head and explains, "Here's the problem." She gestures to the framed photo once more. "Mr. Right is right there. And I'm willing to bet he's going to be less than thrilled to meet Mr. Right Now."

Lucy chews mindlessly at her lip and shakes her head fervently, insisting, "No. We've known each other for years now. He just doesn't see me like that. And believe me, I'm not under any illusion that he's been a monk over the past few years. If the number of names he's dropped in conversation are any indication, the line of girls he's dated would probably wrap around the block. He's not exactly pining for me. That much is clear. He's happy with the way things are." There's a wistful lilt in her tone as she glances back over at the frame photo.

"And what about what you?" Julia probes kindly. "What about what you want? Have you told him?"

"I want Wyatt in my life," Lucy retorts quickly, her tone strangely bright. "I'm lucky to have him as a friend."

Julia eyes her suspiciously, unconvinced by the performance, but she recognizes the finality of Lucy's claim, so she nods silently before retreating from the room.

Lucy tears excitedly into the envelope once she hears the telltale snick of her bedroom door closing. Leaning over the side of her bed, she pulls out an old decorative hat box and hefts it up onto her bedspread. Inside is a substantial mound of old letters, a colorful assortment of squares and rectangles with frayed and torn envelopes. Her name looks the same on every single one, and the sight of it feels warm and familiar, almost as much as the throaty caress of his voice across each syllable when he has the opportunity to call her.

She doesn't even have to open each envelope. If asked, she could arrange them in order from earliest to latest, longest to shortest, happiest to saddest, or by any other ordering principle one might think of.

There are the letters exchanged during his time in Georgia. Mostly awkward small talk in a desperate attempt to stay connected while avoiding the topic of _that_ night.

There's the letter he sent her to request that she attend his graduation from Basic training. And there's her response — a wholehearted acceptance of his invitation.

There are the letters exchanged during his advanced training when he so vividly described the friends he made along the way: Oscar and Rob and Adrian, guys that she has met multiple times since and has come to think of as friends of her own.

Then there are the letters he sent to inform her that he was being stationed at Fort Carson in Colorado, which was welcome news to both of them since it was quick flight for each of them when they had their respective breaks from school and work. And there are the written accounts of the shenanigans and adventures he shared with his buddy Matty, a guy who had quickly become a friend, a right-hand man, and a huge fan of Lucy.

The envelopes are all different colors and different sizes, but together they are the patchwork story of their relationship: agonizing deployments, stressful graduate courses, grating family drama, and life-threatening missions. But through it all, a steadfast thread of support and encouragement and a constant wish to be together once again.

This deployment has felt even longer than the last one, which she never would have believed could be true. He's been gone for almost eight months already, and while she misses him tremendously, she also knows that the end is nearing and he will return to her soon.

She turns her attention to the newest letter, and settles back into the plush nest of pillows on her bed as she begins to read.

 _Lucy,_

 _Let the countdown begin! I can't tell you how ready I am to get home and to see you. I even miss Sherwin and his grumpy ass. I'm sorry to hear that things didn't work out with Grrrrrant! — except that I'm really not because the guy sounded like a total tool. You deserve better. And tell Julia I approve of the nickname. I trust her judgment and appreciate her honest assessment of these idiots...where do you find these guys? Anyway, I have to tell you about the monumentally stupid thing that Matty did the other day..._

She dates. Well, she's dated. There's been a long and monotonous list of first dates, a slightly shorter list of tedious seconds, and then a relatively limited collection of third and final dates. And among those there have been a few winners who have managed to graduate to relationship status. There was John, the European History TA, who quickly became known as Just John around the apartment because "That's just John" became Lucy's tagline for all of the annoying things he would do when he would visit the apartment. Nitpick and correct during casual conversations? That's just John. Make the weakest pot of coffee known to man? That's just John. Occasionally refer to himself in the third person? That's just John. After John had come Blah-Blah-Blake, the nonstop talker. And most recently had been Grant or Grrrrant! as Julia had called him due to the inhuman level of energy and enthusiasm he possessed—it was enough to put Tony the Tiger to shame.

She chuckles as she reads through the rest of his letter, appreciating his ability to effectively convey the ridiculousness of so many of the antics of his colleagues. She smiles when she reaches the end and sees the usual parting words:

 _Miss you more than you even know. See you (sort of) soon._

— _Wyatt_

Immediately, Lucy pushes all of her study materials aside and retrieves a fresh sheet of stationery from her desk. Julia's right—she could email him—but she likes the intimacy of actually penning her thoughts. She twirls her favorite pen thoughtfully as she ponders her words, and then she begins to write, reveling in the scratch of the ballpoint against the heavy cream page.

 _Dear Wyatt,_

 _Thank you so much for your condolences regarding Grant. I'll have you know he was not a tool...he was just enthusiastic. Maybe a bit too enthusiastic, I'll admit, but you can't fault the guy for loving life._

 _I do have news on that front, however, because now my mother is trying to marry me off. To be fair, I do have to say that he's actually relatively normal. Even Julia admits that he's a vast improvement over the guys I've dated before. (I know, I know. You're thinking that the bar isn't super high, but trust me, okay? He's not bad.) He's a third-year med student named Noah, and he's nice, so maybe I should give him a chance._

 _I don't know. Amy thinks he's boring, but her current life goal is to become independently wealthy as a fashion blogger, so I'm not sure I can trust her judgment._

 _I can't wait for you to get back. I don't know how people do this on a regular basis. Let's get In-N-Out when you're here, okay? Your treat though. I'm a starving student after all._

 _See you (in person!) soon!_

 _Lucy_

* * *

Wyatt crumples the letter, rolling it between his palms until it's a hard ivory sphere. He always keeps her letters. He's got a whole box of them. But he's trying to forget he ever read this one.

"What the hell's up with you?" Matty prods with a confused scowl. "You've been snapping and snarling like a rabid dog ever since…" Realization washes over him, and understanding lights in his eyes. "Did you get Dear John'd by Luce? Because I've seen how that girl looks at you, man, and…"

"How the hell do you get Dear John'd when you're not even in a relationship?" Wyatt snaps irritably. "And I can assure you she's not looking at me right now. Apparently her mom is trying to set her up with some other asshole. Trying to help her forget about me, no doubt."

"Okay, man. First of all, you need to calm the fuck down. There's no way Lucy has fallen for another guy. That girl is all about Wyatt Logan." He chuckles. "I still think it's hilarious that the two of you are rolling with this 'just friends' thing. You've kept this charade going for how many years now?" He repeats, "There's no way she's fallen for anyone who's not the almighty Wyatt Logan."

"Well, feel free to write her and tell her that, because I'm not sure she realizes that," Wyatt grumbles sullenly.

"Wait a minute. I'm confused. Didn't you _just_ tell me that you aren't in a relationship?"

"Well, we aren't," Wyatt points out.

"But you're sitting here, pissed because she might be seeing someone else? I mean, what is she _supposed_ to do? Sit around and wait for her _friend_ to come home? Girl's gotta get her kicks somehow. You can't be mad at her for that."

"I'm not mad at _her_ ," Wyatt assures him.

Matty nods slowly. "Okay, so you're pissed at yourself." He gestures to the photo Wyatt has tacked next to his bed. The one from his graduation. The one with the damned striped dress that nearly ended him on sight. "She's a beautiful girl, Wyatt. If you don't let her know how you feel, someone else is going to sweep her off her feet. Why does that surprise you?"

"He's not good enough for her," Wyatt insists stubbornly, still idly rolling the crumpled letter between his fingers.

"Have you met the guy?"

Wyatt is silent, but his posture is rigid and his jaw ticks slightly as he attempts to feign nonchalance. He pinches the letter even harder between his forefinger and his thumb.

Lifting his hands in surrender, Matty backs away before remarking, "I'm going to take that as a no."

"I don't have to meet the guy. I just know, okay? She sells herself short. She's too damn good, and she doesn't always demand what she deserves."

"Okay, man. Let me ask you this. When was the last time you were in a relationship?" He watches Wyatt intently, waiting for an answer.

"Uh...does Caitlin ring a bell?" Wyatt replies smugly.

Matty chortles and shakes his head. "I said a relationship. Not a drunken night on the town."

"Allison."

"You went on two dates."

"Gabby."

"Yeah, that wasn't a relationship so much as it was the two of you yelling at each other and then occasionally fucking out your frustrations." Matty frowns. "And she _hated_ Lucy, by the way. Said you were obsessed. No, man, I'm talking a real-live healthy relationship. Like...dinner dates and movies and hanging out in t-shirts and sweats and cooking dinner together. Normal shit like that."

Wyatt avoids Matty's probing stare. There's only one person he's done those things with, and it sure as hell isn't Caitlin or Allison or Gabby. In fact, he's pretty sure that's part of the reason things hadn't worked out with Caitlin or Allison or Gabby. _None_ of them had been big Lucy fans, which he hadn't understood at the time. How could anyone not love Lucy?

"Okay, let me try something else. Who was the last person you spoke to at home?"

With a begrudging grumble, Wyatt replies, "Lucy."

"And the last person you Skyped?"

"Lucy."

"Last email you wrote? Who was it sent to?"

Wyatt rolls his eyes, mumbling, "Lucy."

"And obviously the last letter you received was from Lucy, so let me ask you this...have you spoken to anyone who _isn't_ Lucy Preston?"

"I talk to Sherwin," Wyatt insists stubbornly.

Matty laughs and claps Wyatt heartily on the back, "I've got news for you, buddy. The last time you were in a relationship is right now." He gestures once again at the tacked-up photo of Lucy. "With her. You'd just better make sure she knows it **."**

You're being ridiculous. She's a friend," he replies. But he doesn't even believe himself. He doesn't know what Lucy is to him. Is she a friend? She seems like more. He can't remember ever wanting to be around another person as much as he wants to be around Lucy. She's a craving—an addiction. She makes him feel good about himself. She makes him feel excited about life and the world. Is that what friends do? Or is she something special? Something more? One thing he does know, he's certainly not going to hash this inner-conflict out with Matty. So he keeps it simple. And vague.

"She's a friend," he repeats unnecessarily.

"Sure," Matty replies with a shake of his head. "Whatever you say." He looks disappointed.

He looks the way Wyatt feels.

* * *

He likes to surprise her when he comes home. She always has a general idea of when to expect him, but he never calls before he shows up. He likes knowing that her joyous reaction is a genuine one. The knowledge that someone wants him around is still like a balm to his war torn soul — even after all these years.

He tosses his duffel in the back of the truck, but not before he tugs a photo, _the_ photo, from the zipped side-pocket.

A tangle of ragged ridges run up, down, and across the image so that it's no longer glossy to the touch. She's laughing at something — he can't remember what — and he's watching her with a lightness on his face that he hardly recognizes. It's a physical tether to a version of himself he likes better than anything he's been before. The photo has become a touchstone of sorts, and it's been tucked and rolled and folded into countless pockets, duffels, and consoles as he's trekked around the world. There's even one particularly pronounced crease that runs a purposeful path through his eyes. Her face, though, is still blessedly smooth — he's made sure of it. The humor in her eyes is so vibrant in the image that he can almost hear her belly-laughing even now. Her laugh is a wonder. She laughs loudly and deeply and unapologetically, and it's one of his favorite things about her.

Tucking the photo into the small storage tray in the console of his truck, he starts the engine. He makes a mental note to get a new copy of the photo before he leaves again.

He thinks it might time for a _few_ new things this time around.

* * *

Lucy lives in a two bedroom university-subsidized apartment with her roommate, an outgoing law student named Julia. He likes Julia. She's no bullshit. She looks out for Lucy. And Julia likes him back.

Julia also doesn't say anything (aside from a whispered "GI Gorgeous!" in greeting) when she opens the front door to find him standing on the other side, which allows him the opportunity to knock casually on Lucy's bedroom door and really elevate his surprise-game. He knows she's studying. She always closes the door when she's studying. So she's a little miffed by the interruption when she yanks the door open, wondering who would dare disrupt her. She looks rather comical in worn jeans and a striped t-shirt, her hair working diligently to escape the confines of its high ponytail. He stands silently for several moments, just waiting for her to acknowledge him, and then he laughs loudly as she shrieks, her brain finally processing the sight of him.

"You're here!" she cries out, her elation and disbelief causing a shrillness he's not used to hearing from her.

Within seconds, she's dangling from his neck, her arms linked behind his head and her feet kicked up behind her with intense excitement at his sudden appearance. He wraps her in his arms, as tightly as he can, his cheek against her shoulder, his nose brushing her neck as he breathes her in, inhaling deeply, hoping he can store the rosy scent of her so the memory will last long after they're separated again. They're frozen in place for what seems to be hours, just savoring in the sensory elements of the reunion: the touches and sounds and sights and scents of one another.

When Lucy finally lowers her socked feet back to the floor, she pulls back and they get their first good look at each other. He looks good—lean, and a bit roughened by work and travel—but he looks strong and his eyes are shining and he's watching her with something resembling hunger. Running a self-conscious hand over her messy hair and her faded sweater, she thinks for a moment that she's a total disaster, but then she remembers that it's _Wyatt_ and she doesn't have to care.

She tugs him into her bedroom and shoves him at the bed before closing the door behind them.

"Kinda forward, aren't you?" he teases gently as he drops lazily onto her bed.

She rolls her eyes at the joke and then moves to stand in front of him, her hand outstretched as she watches him expectantly. "Well?" she prompts, playing her role in this well-rehearsed ritual.

"I've got something for you," he answers.

Reaching into his pocket, he catches something in his grasp and then holds out his fist as she waits expectantly. The locket tumbles from his hold and dangles delicately over her open palm before he lowers it carefully into her grasp.

She smiles at the well-loved necklace and then up at him. "Welcome home, soldier," she murmurs sincerely, rising to her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek.

He nods as he replies, "Glad to be back, ma'am."

* * *

They head to In-N-Out for a very fancy welcome-home meal—his treat, as promised—and they work to catch up on all of the little details that fell through the cracks of their dedicated letter writing. He's got six weeks of leave coming, and he promises that he will be spending the bulk of it with her, so long as Julia doesn't mind him crashing on their couch.

He hasn't asked about the Noah situation in the two months since she first mentioned him in her letter, but he can't help but make a casual inquiry now.

"Ugh," she groans. "Obnoxious. That's how it is. There's just...no spark with him. I don't mind him, but I don't particularly enjoy his company. Of course, my mother thinks we're soulmates and goes out of her way to push us together every chance she gets.

"So nobody else has triumphed in the Lucy Preston Relationship Challenge, huh?" he queries craftily.

She takes a healthy slurp of her chocolate milkshake and shakes her head. "Nope. I think I break them." She looks momentarily stricken. "Or maybe I'm the broken one."

He's shaking his head before she even finishes the thought. "You're not the broken one. They're just not worthy. Simple as that."

"And you?" Lucy probes curiously, keeping her tone light and vaguely interested. "Was Gabby the last one?"

"Gabby's ancient history," Wyatt confirms.

"Good," Lucy nods. "I don't think she liked me. She didn't look too thrilled the one time we managed to Skype." She sighs, stirring her milkshake with her straw. "Maybe we're both just destined to be alone."

Smiling down into his own vanilla shake, Wyatt shakes his head, murmuring, "I wouldn't be so sure about that."

* * *

It all comes to a head after a small party thrown by some of Lucy's colleagues. Since the novelty of Wyatt's presence hasn't come even close to wearing off, she begs him to accompany her.

"Please?" she pleads, her eyes looking huge as she watches him hopefully. "I don't even really want to go, but I promised Julia I'd make an appearance. It's just a small group of grad students from some different departments around campus. I'd rather spend the evening with you."

Her request is so genuine that he can't deny her request, so he soon finds himself in an airy Palo Alto craftsman which probably costs at least twice as much to rent as the amount he takes home each month. There are IPAs and local wines and fancy little finger foods that look like mistakes and taste like feet. And there are people who talk about little more than their respective areas of study.

It annoys him, if he's being honest with himself. It all feels so disingenuous and so far removed from the Lucy he knows and...likes a whole lot.

But she looks beautiful in the wisp of a dress she chose, and she's had her hand in his for most of the night so far, so he's sure as hell not about to complain.

He thinks maybe tonight is the night.

* * *

Three people stop her when she leaves Wyatt's side to look for something more edible than what she's seen so far. _Who is he? How do you know him? How long have you been dating?_ And, perhaps most perplexingly, " _Where did you find him?"_

She gets tired of the constant questions, the constant elbow nudges, the constant raised eyebrows and looks of surprise. She isn't sure what bothers her the most—the fact that people think she's _with_ Wyatt or the fact that they're so surprised that she might be. It's not like she isn't aware that they're an odd pair, but it stings a little to see how shocked people are that she might have ended up with someone like him.

"I mean, you and I both know that Wyatt and I are just friends, but still—is it _so_ shocking that a guy like Wyatt might actually be attracted to me? You know, I'm told that I'm not exactly hideous," Lucy gripes irritably to Julia upon meeting her next to the hors d'oeuvres table.

Julia gives her an odd look. "Someone had to _tell_ you that? No one is surprised that you _can_ land someone like Wyatt. Everyone is just surprised that you're here with someone. Like... _with_ someone. I don't think you realize the effect he has on you, Luce. You're like a different person when he's around. You're normally a bit of an ice queen in social situations."

"That's not — "

"It's true. I love you. And I _totally_ get what Wyatt drools over in you. But you don't exactly make yourself available to people. Normally I have to drag you out here, and then you usually find the dullest, most non-threatening person at the party and lock yourself in conversation with them. It's like you don't actually want people to get to know you."

"He doesn't drool."

" _That's_ what you took from my little soliloquy there? Oh, my sweet friend. You've got it bad. And yes, he drools. I've actually pondered asking you to keep him off the furniture. The other day when you two were watching _The Philadephia Story,_ which, by the way, should have been a billboard-sized sign that he likes you, I thought he was going to put a dent in your skull with the force of his gaze. And there was a puddle on the couch cushion."

Lucy rolls her eyes and gives Julia a playful shove. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not." She pauses to sip her wine, and then continues, "You were watching the movie. He was watching you. I know you study history, Lucy, but just this once? Do the math."

* * *

After Lucy is gone for several minutes, Wyatt starts to wander a bit as he searches for her. When he spots her near the snack table, looking like she's in deep conversation with Julia, he decides to help himself to a beer. He's pouring a glass of wine for Lucy when he feels someone approach from behind. He turns slightly, nodding at the dark-haired guy who nods back politely.

"Engineering?" the other man guesses, giving Wyatt an evaluative look.

Wyatt shakes his head. "Nah, I'm not a student. I'm just here with a friend."

Dark-Haired Guy nods in understanding as he steps up to help himself to a beer. He gestures at the glass of wine in Wyatt's hand. "Who's your friend?"

Not feeling particularly inclined to get sucked into conversation, Wyatt answers brusquely, "Lucy Preston."

"Lucy Preston? Dark-haired, dark-eyed, lives-in-the-library Lucy Preston? How'd you manage that?" Dark-Haired-Guy wonders aloud, his tone and his smile both teasing.

Despite the guy's friendly demeanor and lighthearted tone, Wyatt stiffens at the millions of potential implications of the guy's commentary. "We've been friends for years," he replies plainly.

"Well, I guess she had to cave some time." The guy laughs and then offers a hand. "You must be Wyatt. I'm Noah."

Surprised, Wyatt is frozen for a moment before he reaches out to return the handshake. "Yeah, uh...how did you—?"

"Lucy talks about you all the time. We dated briefly," he explains. "I was surprised to see her here tonight. Normally it's hard to tear her away from the library. She can be a bit single-minded when it comes to her work. Tonight's the most social I've ever seen her."

The words are innocuous enough, but Wyatt detects the barely-perceptible hint of resentment in Noah's tone, and it pisses him off.

Lucy chooses that moment to approach, a friendly smile on her face, and Wyatt can see the hitch of surprise in Noah's expression at the sight of Lucy looking so carefree and open. He grabs her hand, tugging her closer, and slings an arm low around her waist, his thumb strumming against the rise of her hip bone. It's safely within the unspoken bounds of friendly affection that they've established over the past several years, but Wyatt knows what it looks like to someone looking in from the outside of their relationship. He doesn't know why he does it, but he doesn't care. He likes having her at his side — he likes being at _her_ side. He likes the idea of them being partners-in-crime and having each other's backs. He _doesn't_ like Noah's vague implication that Lucy is some sort of frigid snob.

"Noah," Lucy greets politely, her smile tight. "It's nice to see you. I see you've met Wyatt."

Noah grins charmingly in return. "Indeed. I finally got to meet your soldier, Lucy. After hearing you talk so much about him, I feel like I already know him."

Lucy flushes at the words, but Wyatt relaxes into the knowledge that she obviously hasn't forgotten about him in his absence.

"How's the book coming along?" Noah inquires casually, taking a pull from his beer.

Unable to resist the shift to a topic she adores, Lucy spouts little gems she's unearthed in her research, and Noah engages her in a discussion of the research process—something Wyatt knows (and cares) very little about. But Noah's question needles at him. _What book?_ In all of the texts and phone calls and emails and letters, she's never once mentioned a book, and shouldn't that be something you mention to your so-called best friend?

He remains at Lucy's side for the next hour or so as she flits from group to group, making polite small talk in a manner he's never seen before. She laughs politely at political humor and offers feedback on dissertation topics. There are snippets of gossip about an aging professor and his questionable grading practices, and then there are admiring remarks made about some of the published research Lucy has been credited for during her time at the university.

She's light and vibrant and charming and beautiful...and goddamn smart, and while he's enchanted by this version of her, he's also terrified beyond belief.

He's got little to nothing in common with these people, and it causes him to wonder just what he has in common with Lucy.

* * *

Wyatt has disappeared.

After being talked into taking shots with Julia, Lucy is feeling particularly light and bubbly. Her stress and worry and self-consciousness are fizzing away like the foamy froth atop the beer she's carrying now. With a jovial laugh and a bit of a sway to her step, she circulates through the party until she spots him through the sliding glass door. He's standing on the patio, looking a bit distressed as he speaks animatedly into his phone. Slipping her slim frame through the narrow opening of the door, she approaches him silently from behind, afraid to startle him with her sudden appearance.

"Some fancy party with her Stanford friends." There's a pause. "Because she asked me to." He laughs heartily at something and continues, "Yeah, you're one to talk. Tell me again about how easily you used to say no to Grandma." There's another pause, and she can hear the slight crackle of sound coming from his phone. "No, I haven't said anything. Tonight is the perfect example of why. You know she's writing a book? A goddamn book, and she never even mentioned it to me. We're from two different worlds, okay?"

Lucy stops short, frozen in place. She's walked in on a conversation she shouldn't be hearing, but she's not sure how to back away from the situation without exposing her presence. Grimacing, she glances around, looking for an escape.

"She's in her element here. I don't want to mess that up. It's better this way," he declares firmly. "For everyone."

Well, that's just great. She doesn't even have to hear both ends of the conversation to know what he's talking about. Apparently her opinion doesn't matter at all.

She turns on her heels at his words, and she's not sure if she should blame her tipsy state or her innate gift for inopportune clumsiness, but her feet nearly spin right out from under her, and the door rattles loudly as she grasps it to keep from falling.

He turns at the sound, but she's already through the door and into the house by the time he spots her.

* * *

She's sitting on a bench on the front porch when he finds her, and the crisp lightness that he'd so enjoyed seeing earlier in the evening is gone. Instead he finds her mired in the sort of weighty darkness that he's used to seeing after she's had an encounter with her mother. Great.

"Lucy."

She turns to face him, and gives him a sweet smile that does nothing to erase the sag of her shoulders and the sadness in her foggy eyes. "Hey," she greets. "Are you ready to go? I'm kind of tired."

"Lucy," he repeats. He opens his mouth to continue, and she shakes her head.

"I'm sorry for eavesdropping. I was just coming out to check on you since you looked upset," she explains, looking fraught with guilt.

"Lucy," he says again, this time with a forceful edge. He knows what she's doing. He's not going to let her babble her way out of this conversation.

"Do you know why I didn't tell you about the book?" she asks suddenly, the words sounding strangely thick on her tongue.

"We don't have to…" Wyatt starts to protest.

"No, really," she insists, the words still wavy in the air. "I want you to know."

"Lucy, I understand. I thought...maybe...finally...that you and I might... But seeing you tonight? You deserve someone who can be a part of all this," he gestures back towards the party. He trails off at the look on her face, and he feels his gut twist at the sight. She looks equal parts mortified and devastated.

"Wyatt," she shakes her head uncertainly, the words in her mind snagging stubbornly on something in the back of her throat. "I...that's not…I don't…"

"Just...let me take you home," he finally sighs.

She ponders for a moment, and nods shakily, offering her hands so he can pull her to her feet.

* * *

She's oddly stiff in the passenger seat, and her head is resting against the cushioned headrest. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is even, so he assumes she's already fallen asleep. He's leaning over the console to buckle her seat belt around her, when she startles him with an abrupt command. "Okay, Wyatt. Let's have it."

Her eyes are open now, and they're impossibly wide in the streaky darkness of the car. He shifts his weight back into the driver's seat and huffs impatiently. "Let's have what?"

She harrumphs skeptically and rolls her eyes. "Please! You've been quiet all evening. I thought it was just because you didn't know anyone, but then Noah mentioned that you seemed tense when he spoke to you. And then I walked out to hear your end of that phone conversation. What's going on?"

"I don't have a problem. Maybe I'm not the one with the problem. Maybe it's your ex-boyfriend."

"Ex-boyfriend?" she echoes cluelessly. "You mean Noah?" She exhales in a shrill peal of laughter. "We went on a few dates. Boring ones. Because my mom insisted that he was my soulmate."

"Of course she did," he mutters.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean? Where is this coming from? And why should _you_ care?" she challenges.

"He's not good enough for you."

"Well, that's fine since, like I _already_ told you, I'm not seeing him anymore. But if you recall, you were just on the phone telling your grandfather that _you_ aren't right for me. And you don't seem to think anyone else is either. So am I just supposed to spend the rest of my life alone?"

"Is that an option?" he deadpans. He ducks when he hears a frustrated growl and sees her hand slicing violently through the air between them. "I'm kidding! I'm kidding! Of course I don't want you to be alone. I want you to be happy. And respected. And loved the way you deserve to be loved."

"And how is that?"

"Completely," he replies immediately. "Without reservation or hesitation." He waits a moment, readying himself, taking a breath before he leaps. "The way I love you."

She freezes at that. She's certain that the blood in her veins has halted its flow and has subsequently pooled at her feet, because she is instantly lightheaded and numb.

"I'm sorry — what did you just say?"

"I said _I_ love you. And I _don't_ deserve you. I know that. But you deserve to be loved in a wholehearted, you-jump-I-jump kind of way. I can't even imagine the possibility that there's a guy out there who could possibly love you as much as I do. There's no way."

"Wyatt."

"Lucy," he replies teasingly.

"I don't know what to do with this. I wanted this, and then...and now…"

He shakes his head and gives her the softest smile she's ever seen, and he speaks using a warm velvety tone to match. "You don't have to say or do anything, Lucy. I just should have said it a long time ago. And I didn't. So I'm saying it now. There's no wrong reaction if it's an honest one."

"There's absolutely nothing between us."

He knows that he told her mere seconds ago that there's no wrong reaction, but there sure as hell is a painful one, and she's just launched it at him with with striking precision.

"Uh...what?"

She gives him an impatient little smile and then shakes her head before she explains, "There's absolutely nothing going on with Noah. I'm just not attracted to him in that way."

"Uh, does he know that? For a fact?" Wyatt questions, unconvinced.

"He does," Lucy nods certainly. "I've made it abundantly clear to him. I know he wants more. And so does my mom. She's oddly invested in the idea of the two of us dating, but it's all moot in the end."

"Why is that?"

"Because I can't seem to get beyond a third date with a guy since I met you. And here we are, out together for what must be the millionth time, and all I can do is think about the fact that I don't want this night to end. I don't want these six weeks to end. I don't want you to leave me." She's quiet for a moment before continuing, "I didn't tell you about the book because I talk to you about the real stuff. The book? That's just a show. That's just the Preston way. It's expected. That's what I talk to everyone else about because it's all anyone else knows about me. But you?" She looks up earnestly. "You know everything that matters. I like that you're the only one who gets that part of me. It's my favorite part. And it's yours."

"So you're...open...to this?"

She stares at him for a moment, assessing the sincerity behind his words, and then a light gale of effervescent laughter bubbles from her throat. "You're kidding, right?"

He says nothing, his eyes narrowing in genuine bafflement.

She shrugs. "I've been open to this for more than three years. All you ever had to do was ask."

* * *

Her apartment feels like home.

 _She_ feels like home.

He's touching her and tasting her in ways he never has before, and yet everything about it triggers his sense memory in the most intimate and glorious of ways. She's safety and fulfillment and adoration and happiness all poured into one beautiful vessel of a woman.

He touches her in some capacity for the entirety of the drive back to her place: their hands tangle across the console, his hand rests at the small of her back while they walk to her front door, and then his fingertips are caressing and stroking, delighting in every texture they encounter: the wispy decadence of her silk dress, the satin-smooth softness of her skin, and the glide of her slightly mussed hair.

She leads the way into her bedroom, striding to the center of the room on legs that are wobbling like reeds in the wind. She's never been more certain of wanting something. And she's never been more terrified of getting what she wants.

She hears the soft click of the door behind her, and then she feels his hand on her arm, his grasp sturdy with desire. She clenches against the trembling in her jaw, and she looks searchingly at his face, startled by his satisfied, almost smug, expression. Then his lips are on hers and his hands are roving reverently over the whisper-thin fabric of her dress. He backs her towards her bed, never breaking from the cadenced pattern of soft kisses he's pressing down the column of her neck. His hands settle on her back to guide her in the gentle descent to the softness of the mattress, and suddenly she's looking up at him, dark desire in her eyes, and he's looking down at her, adoration and anticipation visible in his parted lips, and they each see in the other the feelings they've been harboring and hiding and protecting for so long.

She reaches for his belt and fiddles with the buckle, pausing just long enough for him to tug at the hem of her dress, lifting it up and over her head. In a matter of moments, their clothes are discarded and their kisses are ceaseless and she's drawing him down and into her, where she thinks maybe he's belonged all along.

There should be some element of awkwardness, but there's not.

He feels like home.

* * *

The peace lasts for two weeks.

It's the happiest she's ever been, and she's pretty sure he feels the same way. Julia has been kind enough to make herself scarce by staying with her boyfriend (but not without a healthy dose of "I told you so" after being apprised of the change in Lucy's relationship status) so she and Wyatt have had plenty of alone time at the apartment. Neither of them wants to think about the fact that his short stretch of leave is rapidly approaching its end. Neither of them wants to think about a long-distance relationship when they've _just_ started to figure things out. They don't want to disrupt their happiness quite yet. In the end, it doesn't matter anyway.

Their peace ends abruptly with a knock on the door.

He's making beer pancakes, and she's pressing kisses and brushing her nose against the prickly stubble at his jawline when they hear five sharp raps against the front door.

"Lucy! Lucy, open this door right now!"

Her mother's voice is terse and irritated. Lucy cringes at the sound, shrinking into Wyatt's one-armed embrace as he flips the first pancake, and then she sighs. "I guess I have to deal with her eventually."

She moves to open the door, her feet dragging with every step, her hands resistant as they flip the lock and turn the knob. Carol pushes her way into the apartment before Lucy has the chance to open the door completely, and in a matter of seconds she has surveyed the room and dismissed it with an impressive air of condescension. It's as though Wyatt doesn't exist.

He doesn't want to leave Lucy alone, but Wyatt can sense that the conversation is supposed to be a private one, so he cups Lucy's elbow and presses a kiss against the crown of her head. "I'm just gonna…" he gestures to her bedroom. He turns to face Lucy before leaving. "If you need me…"

She nods in understanding and gives him a grateful smile before she turns to face her mother. The two of them stand, squared off like they're about to duel, both waiting until they hear the click of the bedroom door closing. The sound of it is like the sound of a pistol at the start of a race, and it sets them both to tearing into a heated debate.

"Why are you here, Mom?"

Carol cocks her head and eyes Lucy disbelievingly. She glances around the small apartment, turning her nose up at each and every sign of Wyatt's presence: his wallet on the kitchen counter, his jacket hanging on a hook near the front door, his forgotten mug of coffee sitting on the kitchen table with steam still twining from the surface, and then she flinches ever-so-slightly when her gaze settles on the oversized sweatshirt currently dwarfing Lucy's lithe frame.

"You can't be serious, Lucy," she sighs disappointedly.

"I'm absolutely serious, Mom."

"Him, Lucy? He's a nice boy, and I will forever be grateful for the fact that he was there when you had your accident, but this is not a forever romance. You can't afford this kind of whimsical rebellion. I thought we had established that after your accident. You have responsibilities. And you have a nice young man like Noah ready and waiting to help you achieve your full potential. The two of you could be so happy together, Lucy. You're from the same world. He understands the demands and expectations that will be placed upon you better than someone like Wyatt ever will."

Lucy scoffs, "Wyatt isn't an act of rebellion, Mom. You do realize he's been my best friend for the past several years, right? And you're wrong. It's not Noah who understands me. Noah understands the person _you_ want me to be, which is why you like him so much. Wyatt is the one who's been with me every time you've belittled my accomplishments. Every time you've questioned my efforts and minimized my achievements. Who do you think stayed up with me all night over Skype when you berated me for being rejected from the doctoral program at Princeton? I didn't even want to go there, and you still made me feel about an inch tall over it."

"Lucy, you've got a future to think about. There are things you don't realize—things you don't understand. Responsibilities you need to be prepared to embrace."

"Like what, Mom?" Lucy's voice is raised in pitch and in volume. "You've been saying things like that to me for my entire life. What don't I realize? What don't I understand? Why don't you clear it up for me?"

Carol looks strained, her lips pressed into a thin line. "You've always been so stubborn, so difficult. Why can't you just trust that your mother is looking out for you and knows what best?"

"And what about Amy? Why hasn't Amy been held to these standards? Amy's never had to get perfect grades or perfect test scores. Amy was allowed to get an after-school job. Amy was allowed to join the swim team and act in the school play. Why does she get the freedom that I never had?"

"Your sister has different gifts, Lucy. She's on a different path."

"Well, maybe I want to be on a different path, Mom," Lucy declares, her arms crossed defiantly over her chest. "And this is it. This is the path I choose. It includes Wyatt. But I'm not sure it includes you. You need to leave."

Shaking her head in disappointment, Carol makes her way to the front door. "You're only making things harder for yourself, Lucy. You'll see that eventually."

Never one for dramatic displays—even under the most dramatic of circumstances—her mother slips out quietly, the front door closing behind her with barely a sound.

Frustrated, saddened, angered, and confused, Lucy is frozen in place, eyes closed, breathing deeply in an effort to cleanse herself of yet another fractious encounter with her mother. Things have only grown worse over the past several years, and while she's grateful that she's managed to salvage enough of a spine to stand up for herself these days, she grieves for the loss of a true mother-daughter relationship—one built upon a foundation of mutual respect and unconditional love. She knows now that theirs will never be that kind of relationship.

"You okay?"

She nearly sobs with relief and appreciation at the sound of his voice. Ninety-nine percent of the time, these confrontations take place when he's in Colorado or Afghanistan or Iraq or God knows where, so while she knows he always supports her and would happily fight Carol Preston to the death for the sake of her happiness, the luxury of having him right here, where he can hold her and reassure her in person, is almost more wonderful than she can handle.

"How much of that did you hear?"

"Enough," he responds, and then he asks again, "You okay?"

She tries valiantly to give him a smile, but her tears spill over before she's able to muster much more than a pout. "No," she admits finally.

He watches her, concerned when she doesn't answer right away, and then steps forward to pull her into his arms. "C'mere," he urges softly, rubbing her back soothingly with one hand while using the other to gently wipe at her tears. He lets her cry softly against his chest for several minutes before he speaks again. "What are you thinking?" he asks her finally.

There's a stretch of silence before she pulls back to look at him. He smiles tenderly at the fire in her eyes and readies himself for her answer.

"I'm thinking that it took us more than three years to figure us out, and I'm thinking that we have three more weeks together," she tells him, "so I'm not going to spend even three more seconds worrying about a woman who has tried to rob me of happiness at every opportunity."

Wyatt's smile widens at the sudden shift in her mood, and he nods in agreement. "You know what?" he responds. "I think you're right. And you know what else? I love you. So much."

Her small smile becomes a cheeky grin as she returns the sentiment. "I love you too."

"And hey," he cracks, "it only took us three-plus years to say those three little words."

She chuckles lightly and shrugs a shoulder. "Better late than never."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated!**


	4. Part Three

**PART THREE**

 **Let Me Always Be With You**

* * *

 **~2011~**

The heat is unyielding and the metal of the folding chair is blistering through the fabric of his slacks. The thick ivory program is sticky from the unusual humidity, and he can't help but join the people around him as they start fanning themselves with the folded pages. He feels even worse for Lucy when he sees the bulky robes with the velvety hoods and caps and other academic regalia the graduates are being forced to wear. With any luck, the ceremony will be quick and he'll be able to steal her away for a celebratory meal in an air-conditioned restaurant.

She doesn't know he's coming. Doesn't know he's on leave. Doesn't know that he's tying up loose ends before heading back out for what is likely to be many more months. Again. His presence has been especially spotty over the last several months, thanks to a series of brutal trainings, an ever-growing list of work-responsibilities, and their perpetually conflicting schedules. He knows it's been hard on her for him to be such a fleeting presence—he can see it in her wistful expression and her tired eyes when have the very rare opportunity to Skype. She's so been looking forward to their next visit, to the quality time that always comes when one of them manages to make a long-awaited appearance at other's front door.

She's not expecting this to be a good-bye visit.

The last time they'd been so absent from each other's lives had been the previous year during the troop surge in Afghanistan. He can still remember saying goodbye to her that time, watching her crumble before him, devastated, before summoning a most-impressive stalwart facade. He's not looking forward to reliving the experience.

It's been more than a year since he informed her of his decision to become a Special Forces operator, but he still vividly recalls the way his stomach had been tangled in knots as he prepared to broach the issue with her. It's not that he hadn't expected her to be supportive—it was about the guilt he felt for asking her to accompany him on what he knew for a fact would be an arduous journey filled with missed calls, frequent absences, secret missions, and increased risks. While she'd been immersed in her research for her dissertation, he'd been immersed in the torturous selection process. She'd been buried in journal articles and primary sources while he'd been knee-deep in mud on 15-mile ruck marches. The highlight (aside from having been selected) had been the two-day pass he'd been granted following his return from SFAS, which allowed him to surprise her for a whirlwind visit.

It had been there, sitting on the floor next to the coffee table in her apartment, a grease-stained pizza box between them, that he had delivered the news of his new endeavor.

" _Special Forces?"_

 _Two simple words. But he knows that, to her, they're two simply terrifying words._

" _It was always in the back of my mind once I joined. I just never really believed I would get to this point."_

" _So that's why you were in North Carolina? You told me you were training."_

" _I was. This was the first phase. And now I'll continue. In North Carolina."_

" _You're playing a little fast and loose with your version of honest here. You realize that, right? You didn't think to tell me any of this?"_

" _Lucy, I didn't even think I'd make it through Selection. Most guys don't. Especially not the first time through. I figured it would be probably be moot in the end."_

" _You didn't think you'd make it?" she asked, plucking a piece of pepperoni from his slice and popping it into her mouth._

 _He shook his head._

" _But you're exceptional," she stated simply._

 _She spoke with such honesty, with such blind belief in him, that he couldn't stop himself from leaning over the messy array of paper plates and crumpled napkins to press a kiss, hard and fast, to her lips. "I love you," he told her firmly, his voice rough with emotion. "I love you more than anything."_

 _She nodded weakly and then took an energizing breath, and he saw her expression harden with the steely strength he knew her to possess._

" _So what does this mean?"_

" _Well, it means more secrecy," he admitted. She nodded in understanding. "It means more danger." He saw the pained look on her face as she nodded weakly, and he continued, "And...it means a greater chance to make a difference, Lucy. It means that I'm good at this —really, really good at this—and that I could potentially help a lot of people."_

" _You love it," she murmured, understanding dawning on her face._

" _I do," he confirmed, a beseeching look in his eyes._

 _She took a ponderous breath, surveying him thoughtfully, and then gave him an approving nod. "Then go get it."_

She's been nothing but supportive of him through it all. She's supported his every goal, and she's been there to celebrate his every accomplishment, every promotion.

Her belief in him had helped to bridge the small gaps in his own self-confidence during qualification, and her total lack of surprise at his successful completion of the Q Course had been unbelievably affirming for him. She is constantly amazing him with her grit and her resilience when it comes to his job. She's spent the last eight years believing wholeheartedly in his ability to be great, and he's still a little bit flabbergasted at the idea that someone like _her_ believes so strongly in someone like him.

But today it's her turn. Today he's determined to celebrate her.

* * *

The ceremony feels a lot longer than it is, and the entire audience seems antsy through the parade of speeches and awards. Most of the ceremony is a blurred memory by the end, the only moments of crisp clarity being the two recitations of Lucy's full name—once to present her with an award for Outstanding Dissertation and once to award her diploma.

He wanders through the colorful clusters of people with their bouquets and balloons and brightly-hued envelopes, and he finally spots her standing at the edge of the commotion, alone. The image nips unapologetically at his heart when he thinks about the many times she's been left alone for occasions like this. He knows Amy _would_ be here, but she's studying abroad and won't return for several more weeks. Her mother should be here, but Lucy has cut Carol from her life almost completely ever since that memorable yet unpleasant visit to Lucy's apartment _._ Wyatt had practically had to move heaven and earth to be here, but the thought of Lucy going through her graduation alone had been unbearable, no matter how brave a face she had put on for him via Skype. So here he is, the proud boyfriend. And here he is, about to leave her again. He loves his job, but he hates leaving her.

He watches her for another moment, taking the rare opportunity to admire her, unriddled by self-consciousness or awareness of him. She's beautiful and totally oblivious to it, and he thinks for the millionth time that he's one lucky son-of-a-bitch. Her eyes flit from family to family, and he can see the hint of sorrow in her expression as she observes the jovial celebrations happening all around her.

And then her eyes land on him.

She blinks twice, and he chuckles because he knows she's doubting the reality of his presence. Then she's running, the hem of the unzipped gown fluttering behind her like a cape, and she's laughing as she launches herself into his arms. He can feel the press of her fingers against his back as she tugs at him, trying valiantly to pull him as close as she can.

"Oh my God," she utters, her lips brushing against his neck.

She's pressing an endless chain of quick kisses against his skin, and he feels the rumble of his own laughter deep in his chest.

"Oh my God," she repeats. "Are you really here?" And then she rears back and punches him solidly in the shoulder. He groans at the surprising force of the impact, and gapes at her. "What the hell, Lucy?"

"That's for not telling me you'd be here," she remarks crossly. The harsh line of her furrowed brow softens after a moment, and she reaches up to frame his face with both hands before leaning in to press her lips against his. "That's for being here," she adds sweetly.

He's gentle as he brushes his fingers along her jawline and gives her chin a soft nudge to tilt her gaze up to meet his. "I wouldn't have missed it," he assures her. "I'm so proud of you." He pauses. "But does this mean I have to call you Dr. Preston now?"

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "Only if you never want to see me again. Dr. Preston is my mother." She scowls as though the words leave a bitter taste on her tongue.

Glancing over her shoulder, he frowns at the sight of a familiar dark-haired man. "He's still here?"

Lucy turns to follow his withering glare, and laughs when she realizes he's looking at Noah. She leans in to nudge him playfully with her shoulder. "Not for long if that makes you feel better," she answers. "I heard he matched for a fellowship at Yale next year." She shrugs and adds, "He's from some uppity family in Connecticut, so it's probably a perfect fit."

"Your mother must be heartbroken," Wyatt states dryly.

Lucy stiffens and shakes her head. "I wouldn't know."

Recognizing the need for a subject-change, Wyatt takes her hand and raises it to his lips before giving her a gentle tug in the direction of the parking lot. "Let me buy you a fancy celebratory dinner?"

"Only if it's a cheeseburger and fries," she contends. "I've consumed so much healthy brain food lately, I'm in desperate need of something really bad for me."

"Your call," Wyatt agrees. "Whatever you want."

"I want you," she says firmly, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his jawline. She pulls back before adding, "And a cheeseburger."

Wyatt chuckles bemusedly and nods in agreement. "I think I can take care of both of those cravings if you'll just come with me, Professor."

And so they walk, their linked hands swinging with each step.

* * *

They're sitting on the hood of his truck, parked at a nearby nature reserve, while munching contentedly on their deliciously greasy haul from In-N-Out. There's a fluttery breeze ruffling their hair now, and the sunshine is finally bearable thanks to that gentle sway in the air. Lucy truly hadn't expected Wyatt to show up today, and the unexpected pleasure of having him at her side feels absurdly decadent. Closing her eyes, she turns her face up to the descending sun, and takes a deep breath, inhaling the perfection of the moment. They're in an isolated spot, enjoying the peace around them, totally comfortable with the quiet closeness they're sharing. It's an insulated sort of quiet—the kind that feels safe and cozy—like a protective shell of silence.

Wyatt watches her, basking in the radiance of her contentment. She's playing with the locket, as she often does, and the sight of it is like a bucket of ice-cold water to the face. So he's the first to break through the hush. "I've got to tell you something."

Her eyes snap open, and she turns to look at him, opening her mouth to reply, but her smile wavers. There's something in his eyes, something in the set of his jaw. He's tense, and he's working up to something.

She sighs and looks down at her fries. "How long this time?"

The abruptness of her assessment is off-putting, and he glances over in surprise. "What?"

She looks back at him, a bittersweet smile on her face. "I know you, Wyatt. You've got Deployment-Face."

He scowls and immediately tries to shake his expression free of any subconscious tells. "Deployment...what? What the hell is Deployment-Face?"

"It's the look you've got right now," she remarks simply. "Furrowed brow, worried eyes, tense jaw. It's like you're gritting your teeth against the bad news you're about to deliver."

"You're something else, you know that?"

"Well, I _am_ a doctor now," she reminds him with false bravado.

"True enough," he agrees, his teasing grin tinged with shades of pride at the accuracy of her words.

"So? Drop the bomb already." She pauses and groans, "Oh, God. Forget I used those words. Just...out with it already.

"Another nine months."

He watches her deflate dejectedly, withering beneath the heaviness of the news. She studiously avoids his gaze, and he can see that she's trying desperately to process the information in as objective a manner as possible. She looks frustrated.

"Lucy, please don't be mad."

"I'm not mad, Wyatt. That's the worst part. I can't be mad. What kind of a person am I if I admit that I'm upset that my boyfriend is choosing to risk his life in an effort to secure the safety and freedom of the his fellow citizens? What kind of person am I if I admit that I want you here rather than," she gestures wildly towards some very distant locale, "out saving the world somewhere? Because the truth? The truth is _of course_ I want you here with me. But I'm not supposed to say that because it makes me selfish and unpatriotic."

He looks stricken by her outburst and immediately reaches for her. "Lucy," he starts.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs quickly. "I'm sorry. I know we can do this," she admits. "It's just hard to be away from you. To wonder if you're okay. And you just got here, Wyatt. Everything has just been so hectic. We've hardly gotten to talk over the past couple of months." She looks up at him, and he sees that she's trembling, and she looks like she might be sick. The sight of it stings like salt in an open wound. "I just want you here with me," she admits softly.

"And _I_ want to be here with _you_. More than anything. But this is my job. It's my duty. This is what I'm good at." His tone is strained. He's trying desperately to convey to her just how much this means to him without letting her believe that she means anything less.

She looks thoughtful for several long moments, her eyes searching his face. Then she heaves a sigh and nods. "How long do we have?"

Taking a breath, he summons every molecule of strength he possesses and prepares to break the news. "Two weeks. We've got two weeks."

* * *

Two weeks.

He's been all over the world at this point. He's gone from Georgia to Colorado to Arizona and now to North Carolina. Because Lucy is finished with school and has several weeks before she begins teaching a summer class at Foothill College, they opt to spend the time in North Carolina so he can get his affairs in order for his impending absence.

Ever since being stationed at Fort Huachuca, Wyatt has chosen to live off-base, and upon his arrival in North Carolina, he had opted to rent a small house in a quiet neighborhood within easy driving distance of Fort Bragg. He likes the ease and privacy for when Lucy comes to stay, and in spite of the fact that her visits are few and far between, there are touches of her all over the place. He knows it. Lucy knows it. His buddies who like to come over and monopolize the place during football season _definitely_ know it and love to comment on it: " _You sure you're not married, Logan?" "That's a pretty impressive collection of lotions you've got in your bathroom." "I bet you look pretty in that silky robe that's hanging on the door."_

He typically just laughs off the remarks and waits until the game is back on for them to refocus, but the truth is he _likes_ those little reminders. Being out here on his own is hell at times, and he likes encountering those subtle signs of Lucy as he moves through his day. He likes the dog-eared copy of _The Age Of Innocence_ on her nightstand, and he always smiles at the untidy jumble of papers on the desk he set up for her in the corner of his room. He likes seeing her purple toothbrush in the holder next to his, and he loves that he sees her favorite Phenomenal Woman mug in the cupboard every morning when he goes to make a pot of coffee.

He knows there are similar signs of him at her place in California, and there's something seamless and reassuring about the fact that they each exist in each other's worlds even when they're thousands of miles apart. It's what makes their situation tolerable. And it makes moments like these—when she's curled up on his couch watching some sappy romantic comedy—even better.

He's carrying two cups of coffee into the living room where he'll probably pester her (halfheartedly) to change the channel before settling in to watch with her. She's in a threadbare t-shirt and a pair of soft sweatpants, and her hair is tousled where her head is resting against the back of the couch. He's about to set both mugs on the coffee table when she speaks up suddenly, catching him totally off guard.

"What if I lived here?"

He thinks for a moment that he misheard her, so he lets his mind retrace each of the spoken words, and then he looks for clarification. "What did you say?" He settles onto the cushion next to her, awaiting her response.

She pushes herself into an upright position and turns to face him head-on. Her hair is still hopelessly tousled, but her dark eyes are piercingly serious. "What if I lived here? In North Carolina." she repeats.

"North Carolina?" Wyatt echoes thoughtfully. "Here? With me?"

Lucy shrugs. "It doesn't have to be _with you_ with you. I just mean...there are universities in North Carolina. I'm done with school. I'm ready to teach." She rolls her eyes and continues, "It's not like I have anything tying me down in California."

"But you love Stanford. You love that department. I know you do—despite your mother."

She nods, agreeing, "I do. I've gotten to work with some brilliant people at Stanford. I love it there." She reaches over to cup his face, her thumb fanning reverently over his stubbly cheek. "I just love you more."

Wyatt places his hand over hers and twines their fingers together, lowering them to his lap. "Lucy, I can't ask you to pick up everything, to give up everything, for me."

"What exactly am I giving up? My dad is gone, I don't speak to my mother, and Amy is going to be raising hell in Isla Vista as soon as the school year starts up. The only way I'm giving something up is if I stay in a city that's thousands of miles away from you." She shrugs nonchalantly and gives him an affectionate smile. "Besides, you didn't ask. I offered."

Stunned, Wyatt just stares for several long moments until he can see a hint of uncertainty worming its way into Lucy's eyes. At that, he smiles widely and, with lightning-fast reflexes, he grabs her around the waist, hauling her into his arms, where he pulls her into a kiss so potent with emotion that she can feel his passion all the way down to her toes. Laughing against his lips, she winds her arms around his neck, reveling in the softness of his mouth on hers, the tenderness of his left hand on her waist, the gentle trailing of his fingertips against the curve of her cheek.

"Is that a yes?" she wonders playfully, the words staggered, uttered in the lulls of the staccato beat of enamored kisses.

"You're everything," Wyatt murmurs, his voice coarse with overwhelmed gratitude, and then he adds, "Yes."

* * *

The call comes at 3:26 in the morning.

They know what kind of call it's going to be before they even answer—when is a middle-of-the-night phone call ever _good_ news? The only relief comes from the fact that they're each right there, right within reach, so they each know the other is safe. So then it's just a question of _who_ the call will be about. When they manage to break through the gauzy fog of deep sleep and realize which of their two phones is ringing, they know.

Wyatt is propped up on one elbow, still bleary with sleep as the news is relayed. Lucy shimmies up to rest her chin on his shoulder, her hand on his arm. He reaches for that hand, grasping it tightly as the news is relayed: Heart attack. Quick. Very little suffering. Nothing to be done.

And with that, Sherwin is gone.

The news comes just two days before Wyatt is supposed to be on his way to some undisclosed war zone. Instead he's arranging for a few days of bereavement leave while Lucy is tapping and swiping frantically on her iPad as she arranges travel to Texas. The moment is surreal for many reasons—he can't quite process the fact that Sherwin is gone. The stubborn, old, hard-as-nails, pain in the ass is gone.

But Lucy is here.

She's almost as torn up as he is over the loss of the old man. Wyatt knows that she had as much of a soft-spot for Sherwin as Sherwin had for her, but she's chugging along like a reliable tugboat, keeping him moving, packing their bags, and shooing him out the door so they'll make their flight. It occurs to him as he drives them to the airport that he genuinely doesn't know what he would do without her. It also occurs to him that he would have been going through this totally on his own had it happened just seven years prior. In just seven years, she's become his best friend, his love, his partner—the other half of his pas de deux. She doesn't think twice about tossing his favorite tie into his suitcase, and she doesn't even speak when she hands him a bottle of water and two ibuprofen when his head starts to pound with the overwhelming reality of what's happened.

They catch a flight back to Texas just four hours after receiving the call, and they are solemn from beginning to end. She does all of the talking for the duration of their travel, which allows him to remain protectively cocooned in his protective shell of silence. He keeps her hand in his for the entirety of the trip, and it's like she's innately aware that she's the tether to this new and better life he's built for himself. She and Sherwin have been the beacons of hope for him in his darkest moments, and now she's left to shine all on her own — the lone beam of light for his lost ship.

* * *

They stay at Sherwin's house as they make the arrangements. The house is his now since Sherwin left pretty much everything to him, and pressed by the rapidly-approaching date of his departure, they begin sorting through Sherwin's belongings, deciding what to keep, what to donate, and what to offer to other members of the family. Wyatt's great-aunt Dolores arrives to help out, and fusses over the two of them like a true mother hen, worried about whether they've had enough to eat, enough to drink, or enough rest. She entertains Lucy with stories about young Sherwin as the two of them sort through kitchen drawers and fill boxes labeled with eventual destinations, and while Wyatt is understandably grief-stricken over the loss of his grandfather, he also feels a startlingly sharp sense of clarity as he ponders his own life circumstances.

He focuses his attention on his grandpa's closet. Sherwin was never particularly sentimental about possessions, and Wyatt knows he's expected to do the sensible thing: clean the place out and sell it. Of all the furniture and the clutter and the knick-knacks, there's _one_ thing Wyatt wants to keep. Just one. He finds it on the second afternoon they're there. It's in a shoebox on the top shelf of Sherwin's closet. He can hear Lucy in the kitchen talking to Aunt Dolores about how much he teases her for her lazy approach to bed-making, and he releases an amused snort at her affronted tone.

When he opens the box to examine its contents, he smiles at the sight of it, this thing that had been a persistent glimmer on the periphery of his most treasured childhood memories. But then he sees the small piece of lined paper folded and pressed into the lid of the small box. He chuckles to himself when unfolds the crinkled scrap and sees just what it is.

Sherwin always did know him better than he knew himself. The old man's messy scrawl teeters between the pale blue lines, etching just two words.

 _For Lucy._

* * *

The funeral is small and humble, just the way the old man would have wanted it, and the morning arrives without much pomp and circumstance. They drive themselves to the small Presbyterian church where the reverend offers his condolences and some scripture. The service is simple. A few words, a few hymns, and a few flowers. Lucy rubs his back soothingly during the drive to the cemetery, while he grips her left hand in his right, his thumb fanning idly across the bare skin of her ring finger.

The sun shines brightly and casts a muted gleam over the polished surface of the casket. He stares straight ahead, fighting to maintain a sense of strength and stoicism, and he focuses all of his energy and attention on the feel of Lucy's hand in his. He lets himself disappear into the comforting squeeze of her hand and the gentle press of her fingers against his knuckles. She is his strength, his stability, and his support. She is goodness. It seems only right that Wyatt gets to say his final farewell to the first person who ever showed him real love and compassion while standing hand-in-hand with the second.

The house is dark when they return from the cemetery. It's always been dark. Wyatt used to complain about it, calling the old man a vampire and urging him to open the curtains and let in some light. Sherwin had always guffawed and refused. He liked it that way.

Exhausted by the emotional outpouring of the day, Wyatt doesn't protest as Lucy ushers him down the hall and and into his old bedroom. She pushes him towards the bed until he's seated on the faded blue quilt, and then she's in the bathroom across the hall, starting a hot shower for him.

He's sitting silently, staring blindly at the familiar blue walls as he tugs his tie loose ad tosses it onto the bed. As he surveys the room he knows so intimately, he spots the box that sits on his old dresser, and a spark of something erupts suddenly to fill the emptiness that's been in his eyes since their arrival. He can see that she's surprised at his sudden awareness when she comes back into the room. She's removed the black heels she wore to the funeral, so she stands in her black dress and her bare feet, and she eyes him curiously.

"I need to show you something," he explains, giving her a tired smile.

Standing, he moves to the rickety, old chest of drawers in the corner, and he picks up an old cigar box and flips it open. With careful movements, he gently pulls what looks like an ancient piece of yellowed paper from inside and unfolds it with painstaking caution. "I carried this with me for almost two years. Then I was afraid it would completely fall apart, so I decided it was best to keep it somewhere other than my wallet."

She steps forward curiously, confused by his mysterious demeanor.

It's a telegram. She can see the Western Union logo at the top of the page.

"A telegram?" she probes. "What does it say?"

He hands her the piece of paper, exercising great care in the hand-off. And then he explains, "You asked me a long time ago why I was there that night."

She narrows her eyes, uncertain about the night to which he is referring, and then she glances down at the tattered document with its blotted text. She skims the message, looking for a little bit of clarity, but she just ends up more confused by the end.

"The night of your accident," he clarifies. He gestures to the telegram. "This is why. I wasn't there by chance. I was there because of this."

"This is from 1974, Wyatt." She's watching him, an amused smile on her face, as she expects him to reveal some sort of clever punchline in explanation.

"I know," he replies solemnly.

She's surprised by his seriousness, and he can see her growing more and more flustered as she tries to logic her way through the possible explanations. "This makes no sense. We weren't even born in 1974. How would someone know about something that wouldn't happen for another thirty years? This has to be some kind of a joke." She turns to him accusingly. "Are you messing with me?"

He cocks his head, exasperated, and points to the fragile document. "Lucy, we just got back from my grandfather's funeral. Does this seem like the most convenient time for me to play an elaborate prank on my girlfriend? And look at it—does that look like something I just whipped up on Microsoft Word?"

She turns back to the telegram, examining it more closely. "No," she answers slowly, uncertainly. "But I don't understand. This is impossible."

"Neither do I," Wyatt replies. "And I agree. It _is_ impossible. Except that it happened. _That_ telegram showed up _here_ in 2003. And now you know as much as I do."

"So you're telling me that you received a telegram...in Texas...supposedly from 1974...and you showed up in California because of it?"

"Yep."

She pins him with an evaluative stare and then smiles knowingly. "Sherwin told you to come, didn't he?"

"How'd you guess?" Wyatt chuckles.

She smiles, a soft fondness lighting her features, and he feels an intense rush of adoration for this woman who loved his grandpa as much as he did. "You forget that I saw the two of you together. You might have complained incessantly about each other, but I think you each would have done anything the other asked." She gives him a coy grin. "And he may have mentioned once that he believed you and I were _destined_."

"When was this?" Wyatt wonders.

"The first time I met him. When you graduated from basic training," she laughs.

"Wow. Ever the subtle one," Wyatt grumbles. "And that didn't send you running? We'd known each other for all of four months at that point."

Lucy shrugs a shoulder and hands the telegram back to Wyatt before moving to sit on the bed. "I just assumed he knew that what we had was special. I knew it too. Even when we were just friends."

"And it didn't hurt that he adored you," Wyatt mutters, rolling his eyes. "He's taken your side in every argument we've ever had."

"Because he was a wise man and because I'm always right," she deadpans. She scoots over to make room as Wyatt comes and sits next to her. When he's settled, she hooks an arm through his and drops her head to his shoulder. "He was a good man," she murmurs softly.

"That he was," Wyatt agrees.

"He loved you so much, Wyatt," Lucy adds. "He thought the world of you."

"That's why he loved you," Wyatt tells her. "It was only when I met you that I became the kind of guy Sherwin always wanted me to be."

Lucy turns her face to press a kiss to his shoulder, and she feels him press a kiss to the crown of her head in return. She sighs heavily against him, and he wraps an arm around her, pulling her close.

"What do you _really_ think about that telegram?" she asks him, her tone earnest.

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "But I'm not going to worry too much about it because it led me to you. Why would I agonize over and second-guess the greatest thing that's ever happened to me?"

"Right back at you, sir," she tells him teasingly. "Good call, Sherwin," she adds softly.

Wyatt nods in agreement, whispering, "A very good call indeed. Thanks, old man."

* * *

Their short time in Texas comes rapidly to an end, and so does their time together. While they're both grateful that they could face Sherwin's death together, it certainly hadn't been the ideal way for them to spend their final days together before being separated for close to a year.

They're each taking separate flights to head to their respective destinations. They had agreed that Lucy would take the next few months to complete her remaining teaching obligations, tie up loose ends in California, and start her job-hunt before heading out to get settled in North Carolina. His Aunt Dolores is taking care of the final arrangements for Sherwin's house, so once the place sells, they'll be free and clear.

There's just one more thing he needs to do.

They're each putting on their well-practiced "strong acts" now, as they try to prepare themselves emotionally for the toll their separation will undoubtedly take. The toll it always takes.

For Lucy, it typically involves worrying obsessively about the minutiae of his departure. Does he need more socks? Did he pack aspirin? Did he pack enough sunscreen? Is the SPF high enough? Does he need a new mattress pad? Did he remember to buy bug spray? He finally has to remind her that he's not a kid heading off to summer camp, but in spite of the gentle ribbing, she continues to pepper him with constant questions in the hours leading up to their final good-byes—to the point that he's almost _ready_ to go. Almost.

For Wyatt, it's usually about detachment. He's all business. He goes into "full soldier mode" as Lucy calls it, and is almost robotic as he goes through he final motions of preparing to say good-bye to her. He responds to her questions with one-word answers, and he avoids emotional subject-matter at all costs. He tries to disconnect emotionally before he has to disconnect physically. That's harder this time.

Today, since her flight leaves first, he's driving her to the airport and seeing her off.

"You'll contact me the first chance you get, right?"

She's already asked him this three times, but he knows she's feeling jittery, so he humors her. "First thing," he assures her.

She nods absently, and reaches over to take his free hand in hers as he drives. He gives her palm a reassuring squeeze and maintains a steady hold to try and soothe the nervous tremor he can feel in her fingers.

They park in short-term parking, and he takes charge of her luggage. He hefts her carry-on over his shoulder and tugs her suitcase along behind them as he wraps his free arm around her shoulders to soak in the last bit of closeness they'll get to enjoy for a long while. It's midday and midweek, so the airport isn't too terribly busy, and they find an isolated corner between a Starbucks and a gift shop to say their final farewells.

She gives him a watery smile, her lower lip trembling ever-so-slightly, and she raises up on her toes to pull him into a crushing hug. When she finally releases him, he reaches into his pocket to pull out the item he'd managed to pilfer just a few hours earlier. Holding out his hand like he's done countless times before, he gives her a nod. "I've got something for you."

She smiles softly, fondly, at him as he dangles the familiar pendant in front of her. And then confusion flares in her face. "But wait...how did you get it? This isn't how it goes. I'm supposed to give it to _you_ ," she reminds him. "You're the one who's leaving."

"I stole it from your bag," he admits. "And I made a little adjustment to it. This time there's something I want _you_ to hold onto while I'm gone."

Confused, she looks at the locket as it sways like a pendulum from the fulcrum of his fingertips. There's a flicker, a sparkle, when he gives it a little wiggle, and the shape of it feels different in her palm when she finally takes hold of the heavy pendant. Glancing down, she recognizes the flawless gleam of platinum against the familiar antique gold. And she sees the incandescence of an old European cut diamond.

"Wyatt," she whispers breathlessly in response.

"I should have done this a long time ago," he confesses, a wistful smile on his face. His eyes are impossibly blue in the bright light that pours in through the vast wall of windows in the airport foyer, and his expression is equal parts nervous and hopeful. "I'm sorry it's not in a more romantic place or under more romantic circumstances," he remarks regretfully. "You deserve candles and moonlight and music and everything that a proposal is supposed to be. But I can't wait. I don't want to go another minute without letting you know that I want it all with you. I want you for the rest of my life. I want the house. I want the kids. I want going home to be the best part of my day because it means being with you."

"I want all of those things too, Wyatt," she whispers tearfully, still stunned by the totally unexpected turn of events. She watches as he pulls the ring off the chain and holds it between his thumb and forefinger. "Sherwin gave this to my grandmother more than sixty years ago before he left for Korea. He saved it for me to give to my future wife. And when I went looking for it in his closet, I found it labeled it with your name. He knew, Lucy. He knew what I know. That you make me better. You make me happier. You've been the calm in the storm of my life for the past seven years, and I went to spend the rest of my life working to make you happier...to be that for you."

"Wyatt, you already are. You already do. You always have."

"Marry me?" he requests hopefully, his expression almost fearful as he awaits her answer.

She's nodding sloppily, her emotions getting the best of her before she manages to utter a simple verbal response, but she finally manages to choke out a giddy "Yes" to assuage his fears. She's grinning, her eyes damp with happy tears as he slides the ring onto her left ring finger and then admires the look of it on her hand.

"Perfection," he says softly, giving her an affectionate smile. He leans in to press a soft kiss to her lips, and then he chuckles as she pulls him in for another...and another. She throws her arms around him, jubilantly kicking her feet up behind her. He laughs at the joyous display and lifts her easily before swinging her in a circle. He's still chuckling when he lowers her back to the ground, and he wishes that he could bask in the brightness of her elated expression for just a little while longer. She's like sunshine when she's this happy, and her warmth feeds something in him—it's something he's never been able to find anywhere else.

He's still smiling down at her, just absorbing the sight of her looking so carefree, when she looks up suddenly, awareness in her eyes. "Oh, God. I have to go. But I don't want to leave yet." She looks up at him, and he feels a sharp tug on his heart at how quickly her overjoyed smile turns to overwrought dismay. Her head dips suddenly and her eyes drop to her feet, and he can feel the weight of her heavy sadness anchoring him where he stands.

"Hey," he chides gently. "This is a good thing, Lucy. An amazing thing. And I'm sorry that my timing is so shitty, but with everything—" he trails off apologetically.

"There's no such thing as shitty timing when it comes to something like this, Wyatt. You could have proposed to me while taking out the trash or plunging a toilet and it wouldn't be anything less than romantic. I mean, I'm glad you didn't," she admits, "but I still would have said yes."

Wyatt pulls her close once more, fully aware that their time together is truly running out. She looks up at him, her eyes level with his lips, and then she leans in to press another soft kiss to his mouth.

"I love you, Lucy. More than anything."

"I love you too, Wyatt." She lifts both hands to his cheeks, and pins him with a stern gaze before continuing, "Promise me you'll come home safely." She nods down at the locket he's still holding in his hand. "And bring that with you."

"I will do everything in my power to make it home to you." He leans down, pressing one more kiss to her forehead, and then he raises her left hand, taking another look at the ring. Finally, he looks back at her, his gaze solemn and sincere.

"You have my word, ma'am."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated.**


	5. Part Four

**PART FOUR**

 **I'm Sorry for the Things I Didn't Say**

* * *

 **~2014~**

It's not easy.

They've only been married for a year, but Lucy has already heard enough stories from some of the other Army wives to know that special forces can wreak havoc on a marriage. Delta Force? Well, that puts them in a whole different league of marital volatility. They often joke that they should probably be in marriage counseling purely as a preventative measure. But they make it work.

She's been in her comfortable position at UNC Pembroke for almost two years now, and while it's not exactly the professorship she always dreamed of, she's got a reasonable schedule, diligent TAs, and students who, for the most part, have at least _some_ desire to glean a little bit of historical knowledge from her lectures. The fact that it's an easy commute and that she still has the opportunity to research and publish had been two of the major factors culminating in her eventual acceptance of the position. Her current project, aside from teaching, has been a book detailing the motives and movements of John Wilkes Booth, and the process has been arduous to say the least. While Wyatt has historically been the one with the rather unpredictable schedule, they seem to have traded places lately, as her work on this book has kept her in her office until well into the dark of night, and it's at the forefront of her mind even when she's at home.

Wyatt, to his credit, has been amazingly understanding about her preoccupation with writing, and he's shown up to her office on more than one occasion with a takeout bag in one hand and a thermos of coffee in the other.

They don't always see eye-to-eye on things—from the little things like putting dirty towels in the laundry hamper to the bigger things like whether or not they should buy a new car. Lucy infuriates Wyatt with her tendency to leave every available surface cluttered with knick-knacks. She likes to be surrounded by picture frames and candles and sentimental baubles, while he prefers more of a minimalist environment. Wyatt, on the other hand, loves to spend his downtime catching up on the DVR'd sports he's missed while working, and he has what Lucy considers to be an _insane_ need to feel as though he's _in_ the actual stadium with the team, cranking the volume to the max until the walls of the house rattle with the cheers and jeers of the crowds.

They argue sometimes, and they drive each other absolutely crazy most of the time, but they love each other all the time, and even the roughest days together are far superior to the easiest days apart.

She's proud of herself today though. She's finally finished and submitted the latest draft of her book, so it's out of her hands for the moment, which means she gets to head home while the sun is still shining. It's a small thing, but given the harried nature of her recent work schedule, it feels like a real luxury. Her final class gets out at five o'clock, and by five-fifteen she's walking across campus towards her car. She's crossing through a quiet campus courtyard when her phone chimes.

 _At the grocery store. Any dinner requests?_

She smiles, the way she _always_ does when she sees a text or call from him. She taps out a quick response.

 _Carbs! Pasta. Bread. Wine. We're celebrating. Finally submitted to my editor!_

She watches the oscillating series of dots as he types his response.

 _Yes! Congrats! So proud of you. Celebratory Italian feast, it is. See you soon._

She smiles to herself as she reaches her car and climbs in. An evening of dinner and drinks and conversation sounds like utter decadence to her. She'll sit at the kitchen counter with a glass of wine as he prepares dinner (cooking is a spectator sport for her—or so he likes to tell her) and they'll each talk about the day they've had. And then they'll curl up on the couch to fall asleep halfway through the movie they each _swear_ they're still watching.

It's not exactly glamorous. In fact, it's really a simple life.

But it's theirs.

* * *

The air conditioner is blasting and it feels like the damned Arctic even after he leaves the freezer section. Why do grocery stores always make grocery shopping such an uncomfortable experience?

He's standing in the wine aisle now, searching diligently for her favorite red blend—it's got a tree on the label, but he always forgets the name. He's still scanning the fronts of the dark bottles for the elusive tree when she responds to his text. He can't stop the ear-to-ear grin that forms at the sight of her words. _Finally submitted to my editor._ It's a huge accomplishment for her, and he feels the pride bubbling within himself when he thinks about how hard she's worked on this book. For every promotion, for every honor or award he's received, she's been there with him, practically bursting with excitement over his accomplishments. Seeing her success as a teacher, as a writer, as someone with a growing reputation for excellence in her field—well, it's brought him just as much fulfillment and happiness as each of his own professional milestones. Tonight is definitely a celebration.

There's a comfort and intuitiveness to their lives these days, a domesticity that Wyatt Logan never would have anticipated would become a part of his world. There are certainly challenges; that's true of any marriage. They've each had to do more than a little bit of work-related travel, which is still surprisingly difficult despite their extensive experience with prolonged separation. And they've each had to spend more than their fair share of time at their respective workplaces as they dedicate time to various projects and pursuits, but there's always a sense of comfort when they come back together. There's a closeness that always remains unfettered by their conflicting schedules. They overcome their prolonged time apart with kisses and touches and anecdotes and an easiness that has _always_ existed between them, ever since their very first encounter as they sat shivering on the bank of that rushing river.

He makes his way to the checkout line, barely able to contain his excitement over a quiet evening with his wife, but as he's putting his items on the conveyor belt, his steady stream of bright anticipation wobbles a bit thanks to the niggling bit of trepidation that's been hovering in the furthest recesses of his mind. He's been home for eighteen months now. Both he and Lucy know very well what that means, even as they carry on with their wonderfully ordinary lives.

A part of him is itching to get back out there, to see the world, to put his knowledge and skills to work in the realest and most impactful ways possible. It's what he does. It's who he is. But another part of him truly dreads having to say good-bye to her yet again. As a kid, he always understood the concept of difficult good-byes in _theory_ , but he had never truly experienced the anguish and sense of loss that could come with a loved one's departure. That's all changed with Lucy. Finally he understands what it means to find your perfect match—the perfect piece that just happens to fill the raw and rough-edged hole in your life. Leaving her is like opening an old wound. While he looks forward to the challenge and the stimulation and the adventure that comes with deployment, he doesn't look forward to the months when the closest he gets to touching her is the brushing of his fingers over her neatly penned letters.

The cashier announces his total, and he pops his debit card into the machine. His phone chimes again as he waits for the transaction to process. A quick glance at the screen prompts him to release a sharp laugh.

 _Bring me a pint of Phish Food and I can pretty much guarantee you'll get very lucky tonight._

It's like she thinks he doesn't know her. He taps and swipes a rapid fire response.

 _It's already been scanned and bagged. Get ready to pay up._

The playful exchange is just the impetus he needs to shake himself free from the cobwebs of anxiety. He gives those nagging worries a mighty mental shove and locks them away to be dealt with another time.

Not tonight.

* * *

 **~Three Months Later~**

Her face is ridiculously beautiful on the small screen—even while frozen and pixelated thanks to an internet connection that is about as quick and smooth as a rickety wagon wheel—and he feels an ache in his stomach and a quickening in his heart every time he sees her. He still can't quite believe she chose him.

Separation certainly hasn't gotten any easier over the years, but the advancement of technology has made it at least a tiny bit more bearable. He isn't always able to talk here. He stays pretty busy, he rarely has access to decent internet, and most of what he does is highly classified, so even when he does contact her, he has to remain super hush-hush about his day-to-day activities. But when he's between missions and lucky enough to find himself in a location with internet, a quick Skype session does wonders for his spirits when he's missing her. And he's _always_ missing her. He's heard more than a few horror stories about the destructive toll the Delta Force lifestyle can take on a marriage. He gets it now. It's tough. But they make it work.

They manage to coordinate their schedules enough to Skype two months into his current trip and he can't control the smile that appears on his face as soon as she flickers onto his screen, but his smile fades almost immediately when he sees the stress and fatigue that dim her features.

"What's wrong?" he asks immediately.

She shakes her head and he recognizes the tremendous effort she makes to give him a weary smile. "Nothing. I just miss you."

"And you know I miss you. But you also know that I know you better than just about anyone. You haven't been sleeping. And I would bet money that you haven't been eating either. You're fretting about something."

Her shoulders sag with defeat, and she nearly buckles in front of him. It looks as though she has barely enough strength to sit upright. He scoots forward, closer to the screen, and reaches out to touch the image of her face before remembering that she's thousands of miles away. His hand falls to his lap, and his mind starts to run away with him, pulling him at breakneck speed through a series of terrifying scenarios: she's hurt...she's sick...she's tired of always waiting for him...

"Lucy," he presses, his voice gritty with apprehension. "Please tell me. You're scaring me."

She straightens a bit once she takes a deep breath. "I got a phone call from Amy," she tells him. "My mom is sick."

He feels a hot flash of relief, and the sharp edge of his panic ebbs at her words. Even through the blurred and stuttery image on the screen, he can see the sheen of tears and the tremor of her chin, and he knows he needs to proceed with caution. He hates Carol Preston for everything she's done to Lucy—for all of the judgment and intolerance and dishonesty and ingratitude. He hates that Lucy has spent her whole life idolizing this woman who has treated her so callously, this woman who has treated her like she's anything less than the brilliant, beautiful, bright light of a human being he knows her to be.

But she's Lucy's mother. She's the woman who gave life to the woman he loves. And the woman he loves is devastated.

"How are you?" he inquires gently.

She's honest. "I don't know. I mean, she's been an absolute nightmare. We've practically disowned each other. I mean we didn't even invite her to our wedding. I guess I thought I had finally accepted her for who she is and for the role she's going to play in my life. I mean, I've been pretty okay since I decided to cut her out of my life, right? I felt like I had finally taken the reins back. But then Amy called me to tell me she's got lung cancer, and I just fell apart. I was sitting in the middle of the living room floor, just sobbing my heart out, and for what?"

"She's your mom, Lucy. No matter what she's done, she's still your mom. And you're allowed to be sad that she's suffering."

"She doesn't deserve it," Lucy murmurs stubbornly, her voice ragged with emotion.

"We don't always get what we deserve. Some of us get too much. And some of us don't get nearly enough. It's the way of the world. She got way more than she deserved in you and Amy. Caring doesn't make you weak. I think it's probably the opposite."

The image flickers and the freezes on screen, but he can still hear her shallow sniffles. She reappears after a few seconds, her expression soft. "Thank you," she says softly.

"Anything for you," he returns sincerely.

"Now can we talk about anything else? Literally anything else in the world. Succulents. Let's talk about succulents."

A sharp laugh escapes him at the randomness of her chosen topic. "Succulents?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. It's the first thing that came to mind. My students are obsessed with them. I'm pretty sure I heard one girl referring to hers by name."

"Like...the official plant name?" Wyatt clarifies.

"Not unless there's a plant called Georgina," Lucy retorts.

Wyatt looks bewildered. "College kids are weird."

"Yes, they are," she agrees with a smile.

He pivots the conversation a bit. "So as much as I'd love to discuss the compelling topic Georgina and _all_ of succulents, I'm going to grasp at another straw here—how's the book coming along?"

The change in subject works.

Within a few seconds, Lucy has fallen into an Abraham Lincoln spiral, and she spends the next ten minutes walking him through a minute-by-minute rundown of Lincoln's final day and all of the bitterness and resentment Booth felt for his brother.

He lets her speak, lets her voice pour over him, and for just a little while, his posture eases and his muscles relax and the subconscious clenching of his jaw is released. As he listens to her, to her silken tone rising and falling over the hard consonants and the soft vowels, he is almost able to feel the warmth of her slender frame in his arms. He can practically smell the coconut-vanilla of the moisturizer she always applies before bed. For a moment, he's back at home, surrounded by the familiar creaks and clanks of their cozy house, dozing in bed with her. For a moment, life is just a little bit more bearable.

By the time they end the conversation, he doesn't remember much about Lincoln or Booth, but he does remember the soothing effects of the sound of her voice. The memory of it carries him through the next several days of the melancholy fog that always surrounds him after he ends a conversation with her.

He loves his job. He does. But this sure as hell isn't easy.

* * *

He's three months in when he receives a bundle of mail—nearly all of it from Lucy.

A large golden envelope catches his eye. He recognizes her tidy script on the front of the padded mailer, but he's surprised by the weight of the parcel. Baffled by the mystery of its contents, he rushes back to his bunk where he hopes for at least a few moments of privacy, and tears through the seal of the envelope. When he reveals the enclosed item, he grins proudly at the sight.

 _Out of the Shadows: The Mind and Motives of John Wilkes Booth_

She's been working tirelessly on this book for the past two years, and he feels the pride burning fiercely in his chest. The hardbound book is sturdy in his hands. The dust jacket is smooth and the pages themselves are thick. He marvels at the sight of her name embossed on the cover, typed neatly down the spine, and repeated on the back next to the small photo and the About the Author blurb. She'd been horrified when she'd been asked to provide a photo for the book, but she looks perfect: astute and confident and beautiful.

He's on the second chapter when his buddy Dave Baumgardner or "Bam-Bam" comes in. If Matty had been honest, Bam-Bam is downright abrupt. He's a good guy, and Wyatt trusts him completely, but he loves to give Wyatt shit about Lucy.

Bam-Bam pauses and then gives him a curious look when he sees the book in his hands. "I know you like to read, man, but that seems a little dry even for you."

"It's Lucy's," Wyatt explains absently.

"She sent you a book?" he wonders skeptically. "Sexy."

"It's her second book, dumb shit. She _wrote_ it," Wyatt retorts, fighting the urge to throw the heavy pages at Bam-Bam's head.

"No shit?!" Bam Bam exclaims. "Luce is an author? And she's still married to your sorry ass? Bet she regrets that decision now that she's big-time. Hindsight and all. How'd you get so lucky?"

"I ask myself that all the time, man. Believe me."

Bam-Bam shakes his head, and Wyatt can see him shifting to a rare state of sincerity. "Man, I don't know how you do it. It's hard enough for me to be here, just to be away from everything I know. I love the job—you know that—but it's tough. I can't imagine having a wife waiting for me at home. I think it's a major reason I've never pulled the trigger on the marriage thing. How do you guys do it?"

Wyatt shakes his head and heaves a sigh. He glances down at the image of Lucy on the back of her book, and then he looks up at Bam-Bam, replying honestly, "It's hard as hell. She's been a rock star. I thought it would break her heart when I told her about trying for Delta Force. I mean, it's not like things weren't already dangerous and hectic enough. But she was totally supportive. She was the one encouraging me all the way through training and selection—even when she knew it could potentially turn our lives upside down. Having that conversation was one of the hardest things I've ever done because I was afraid she would feel like I was choosing the job over her. Instead, the conversation ended with her telling me that I owed it to myself to give it a shot and see it through."

Bam-Bam nods and gives him a knowing smile. "I always knew Luce was a closet-badass. I feel for you, man. I really do."

Wyatt sits for a moment, contemplating his next words, and then he continues cautiously, "Between you and me, it's getting harder to say good-bye every time I have to do it. I feel like I'm missing out on the best years of our lives. Like our marriage is passing me by. We've been married for a year and I don't think I've been home for even half of it."

"You thinking about leaving?"

Wyatt shakes his head. "Not leaving necessarily. But I am thinking about a change. Something that could get me back to California would be great. I love the job, but I love Lucy more, and I know she'd like to get back to her home. Plus, I know she's fielded some offers for jobs at a few universities out west. She's got a ton of contacts out there from her Stanford days. She's been in North Carolina for the past two years, and it's been fine. She's been a good sport, and she's kept busy with work and research and writing, but I'm sort of tired of her being the only one to make the sacrifices. Plus, I'd like to be with my wife, you know? I've heard rumblings of something a little more...specialized...that might do the trick."

Bam Bam eyes him suspiciously and then leans in, speaking in a low tone. "Why do I get the feeling you've got already got something in the works?"

Wyatt gives a noncommittal shrug before he replies, "Nothing yet, man. Just keeping my options open. I've got to look out for my family."

Bam Bam nods. "Hey, I get it. I mean, I may not have a wife, but I've met Lucy. I wouldn't want to be away from her any more than I had to. In fact...doesn't she have a sister?" he inquires with a suggestive wink.

"Shit," Wyatt sputters. "The world isn't ready for you and Amy Preston as separate humans. Forget the two of you together."

"She sounds fun," Bam Bam jokes.

"That's one word for it," Wyatt chuckles. "I think Lucy has a few more words for Amy. She's great—don't get me wrong—but she definitely keeps Lucy on her toes."

"Sounds like Lucy keeps you on yours."

Wyatt's wide, bemused smile softens to something more tender. "Since the day I met her," he agrees. And then he adds, "Totally worth it."

* * *

It happens just the way he said it would.

He had explained it to her years and years ago—well before they had become an actual _they._

He explained it to her again when he informed her that he was listing her as his next of kin following Sherwin's passing and their engagement.

And he's explained it to her each and every time he's had to leave her for any sort of work-related assignment. "Because you never know," he always reminds her. She hates when he says that and always tells him so with an angry scowl. She doesn't like being reminded of the risks of his job. She worries enough.

She gets the call at 6:02 in the morning. She's still sleeping— on his side of the bed the way she always does when he's gone — when the obnoxious chirping of her phone drags her from the dregs of slumber. She doesn't have a class until 10:30 on Tuesdays, so she typically sleeps until 7:00 before waking up and preparing for her day. She assumes it's Amy, calling with an update about their mother, so she feels the falling thud of her heart when she sees the words 'US Government' flashing across the screen.

A thousand thoughts rush through her mind in the span of just a few seconds: _Where is Wyatt? What could have happened? Please let him be okay. God, I won't survive if something has happened to him. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's Wyatt himself. I don't want to answer it. I don't want to know. I have to answer. They're waiting. I have to answer. Answer the damn phone, Lucy._

"Hello?"

Her voice sounds tinny even in her own head. She can't imagine how it sounds to the person on the line.

"Mrs. Logan?"

"Yes." She doesn't bother to correct his use of Wyatt's last name.

There's a name. A rank. It's all white noise to her.

And then, "I'm calling to inform you that Master Sergeant Wyatt Logan was injured during an overseas operation when—"

After the word 'injured' she doesn't hear anything but her own pulse, her blood rushing, a whooshing like the ocean tide in her ears. _Injured_. Not killed. Injured. Injured is alive. Injured is coming home. Injured she can handle.

What she takes from the call is limited. _Wyatt. Seriously injured. Bombing. Surgery. Stabilized. In Germany. Returning to VA Medical Center. Fayetteville._

Alive. Injured is alive.

* * *

It takes four days for Wyatt to be flown back to the United States. It feels like four years. Armed with the knowledge that he's okay, Lucy carries on with her usual routine. She teaches her classes, goes to the store, meets a colleague for dinner, and grades papers in the evenings. By the time she gets the call informing her of his imminent arrival, she can't recall anything she's done in the previous 96 hours. She's been wandering in a dense emotional fog, and the sight of her living, breathing husband is the only thing that will help it to clear.

The wall of composure and stoicism she's so valiantly managed to erect and maintain for the duration of the four days? Well, it crumbles when she finally arrives to see him in the barren hospital room. He's wearing a scratchy gown in a godawful powder blue, and she can see the unusual sharpness of his facial features even through the whiskers that are definitely several days beyond her preferred level of scruff. There's a hard plastic chair in an unpleasant shade of avocado green, and she drags it to his side, ignoring the rattle against the hard floor. His hand is mercifully warm in hers as she grasps it and presses her lips to it, thankful for the rise and fall of his chest and the occasional twitch of his eyelids—signs of life before her very eyes.

She's watching him sleep, her arms folded on the edge of his bed, her chin propped on top, when he finally stirs. His voice is especially gravelly after everything, but it's _his._

"Hey," he rasps softly, a small smile appearing as he gets a good look at her.

She's silent in response, shaking her head in futile attempt to ward off her overwhelming emotions.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, giving her fingers a shaky squeeze.

She frowns, confused, and swipes at the tear dribbling down her cheek before shaking her head. "What are _you_ sorry for?"

"For putting you through this. Things have been bad enough for you lately...with work and your mom being sick and Amy being...well...Amy."

She chuckles and then hiccups, giving him a watery smile. She sniffles daintily and then replies, "You have nothing to be sorry for. You prepared me for this. We always knew it could happen. And if it had to happen, this is the best possible outcome. You're here."

He lifts her hand to his lips, pressing a fervent kiss to her knuckles. And then he's silent. They sit without speaking for several long moments, and then finally, he reaches over to the table next to the bed, retrieving something. "I've got something for you," he manages to mumble in a gravelly tone. "I made one of nurses get it for me."

She smiles knowingly and holds her hand out, prepared to receive the anticipated token. The tradition is longstanding now, and his homecoming is never official until the ritual is complete, but the hand-off is especially poignant this time. The locket is heavy as he drops it into her hand, letting the chain spill through his spread fingertips and pool in her palm. She gives the bauble a sentimental squeeze, happy to have it... _him_...back in her grasp.

"Welcome home, Soldier," she whispers softly, gratefully, her vision blurring with tears.

"Glad to be back, ma'am."

* * *

It should be the happiest time of their lives. The first years of marriage are supposed to add a bright sheen to even the oldest and most familiar of relationships. He's safe. He's home. He's been given time to recover. They're together.

But he's different.

Not with her. Well, not really. He still treats her with the same care and affection and respect as he always has. He still looks at her with a reverence that makes her feel unworthy, and he still loves to tease her for her nerdy ways—for her habit of leaving bookmarked books on every flat surface of their apartment (" _Just want to make sure you have something to read the next time you start a load of laundry?" he inquires when he finds yet another biography on top of the dryer)_ , for her inability to do much more than boil a pot of water without setting off the smoke alarm (" _How do you eat when I'm not here? Should I start leaving you with enough MREs to get you through my next deployment?),_ and for her penchant for board games ( _You're disturbingly competitive for a self-proclaimed nerd. A thirty mile ruck march straight up the steep side of a mountain sounds less frightening than a game of Scrabble with you.)_

But there's a hazy distance in his eyes sometimes. There are moments when he looks at her and seems to see something else entirely. There are times when it takes her three, four, even five tries to get his attention. There are the subtle flinches when they're out and about and a car honks its horn while in traffic or a baby shrieks in a grocery store line. There's the fact that the sound of a helicopter or plane flying overhead is enough to raise his hackles and prod him into a state of hypervigilance. She's learned to make a concentrated effort to avoid startling him, and she's discovered that early evening seems to be the hardest for him. That's when he's the furthest away—even when he's sitting on the very next couch cushion.

He's hurting. And for the first time in the years that she's known him, she feels like the walls he's built around his pain are meant to keep even her from getting too close. She frequently comes home to find him sitting on the couch, darkness around him, just thinking. She's made halfhearted attempts to address the issue with him on more than a few occasions, but he's always quick to avoid the subject. Instead, he'll toss out a terrible joke in an effort to cut the line of tension that grows taut between them each time she brings it up. He'll pull her into his arms or brush a hand down her arm or press a kiss to her forehead, and she'll find herself wondering if it's all in her head.

It's not.

That much becomes clear almost a month after his return.

It's dark when she arrives home, but the house is even darker, and she spots the faintest of silhouettes perched on the couch in the living room.

There's an open envelope on the table next to an open bottle of beer, and she can see a white page in his hand.

"What's going on?"

He flinches at the sound of her voice and at the sudden brightness. She sees the shuddering motion with her own eyes, so she compromises and uses the dimmer to reduce the brightness to a dusky glow.

"Jesus, Lucy. You scared the shit out of me."

His voice is accusing rather than playful. It's off-putting.

"I'm sorry," she utters, reeling a bit from the aggressive response. "I thought you would have heard me come in."

He says nothing and takes another sip of beer, the folded page still clutched in his hand.

"What's that?" she wonders softly.

"None of your damn business," he replies evenly.

Annoyed now, she takes a deep and steadying breath before speaking. "Look, Wyatt. I know you've been through hell. I get it, but—"

He cuts her off, and his tone is razor-sharp. "Do you?" he spits. "Do you really get it? Tell me about the struggles of writing a book. It must be torture to sit in your office and _research_ while nobody you work with is out putting their lives on the line for this country."

Okay. Now he's just pissed her off. She's been patient. She's been understanding. She's tried to talk. She's tried to listen. She's tried to simply _be_ with him. But she's not a verbal punching bag.

Gritting her teeth and squaring her shoulders, she looks him straight in the eye. "Stop it," she says firmly. "We're not doing this."

Chuckling wryly, Wyatt tosses the letter onto the coffee table. "What? Talking? I thought that's what you wanted to do. You've been hounding me about honesty. Here it is."

She takes in a shaky breath and releases it slowly before serving him a steely retort. "Yes, I want you to be honest, Wyatt. I'm your wife. That's not exactly a wild request. You know what I didn't ask for? This attitude. This treatment. Don't act like I'm just an overbearing pain in the ass. You've been anxious and jittery, and you've been having nightmares...you just haven't been yourself."

He finally explodes at that. "What do you want from me?! You want me to pretend like everything is fine?" He continues, his tone biting, "Okay. Everything is fine, Lucy. Let's have dinner."

She looks bewildered and taken aback by his roaring tone. "I understand that you can't just bounce back like nothing has happened, and I won't pretend that I know exactly what you've gone through, but I'm worried about you. I love you. I want you to talk to me like I'm your wife, Wyatt. Because that's what I am. I'm supposed to be your partner. Your best friend." Her voice drops a bit as she adds with a touch of vulnerability, "I know you're those things to me."

He rakes a hand through his hair in a frenzied motion and then shakes his head, looking frantic and frustrated. "I can't do this with you. Not right now. I just...I need some air." In a flash, he's practically sprinting out of the room, and before she knows it he's out the front door, leaving her sitting alone on the couch in a state of shocked despair.

The slam of the front door rattles the mirror that hangs in the entryway, and she flinches at the reverberation. She regrets the exchange almost immediately after he leaves, but she hears the engine of his truck and knows there's no way she'll catch up with him now.

Looking hesitantly back at the door, she gnaws uncertainly at her lower-lip, weighing her options, before she slowly reaches down and picks up the abandoned sheet of paper. It's a letter, handwritten, from a Layla Stevens, who expresses her gratitude to Wyatt for his loyalty to her husband Zach. And then there's a personal invitation to attend Zach's funeral and memorial service. _Please know that Zach respected you tremendously and trusted you implicitly. It would mean so much if you would join us for the celebration of life we are planning in his honor. I'd love for my boys to meet someone who can tell them what a hero their dad really was, and I'd love for you to share any words you might have for Zach. Please come. Bring your wife. I'd love to meet her. With Gratitude, Layla Stevens._

The letter brings her to tears for a multitude of reasons. She mourns with Layla Stevens, a woman she's never met but one she understands all too well. She grieves for Zach Stevens, a man who, just like Wyatt, was trying to do his part to make the world just a little bit safer, and paid the ultimate price for his efforts. And, of course, she aches for Wyatt. She knows, maybe better than anyone, just how honorable he truly is. She knows that these memories, this trauma, must be eating him from the inside out.

She knows that it's time for them to sit down and have a real, honest-to-goodness talk.

* * *

She's sitting on the couch, fuzzy blanket over her legs, staring intently at her phone when he finally returns. His expression is both tortured and apologetic, and any lingering embers of anger are whisked away by his reappearance. She looks up at him, her expression open and forgiving, and he approaches her slowly, like he doesn't want to spook her.

"You haven't drawn up divorce papers?" he cracks weakly, looking hopeful and fearful in the same instant.

"It's going to take a lot more than a brief moment of assholery to send me packing," she replies lightly. It's a joke, but it's one rooted in truth, and she delivers it with all the firmness she can muster, wanting to assure him that she's not going anywhere.

"I don't know," he argues. "I think I probably would have walked out on _that_ asshole. He said some pretty shitty things. Untrue things. Especially since you were totally justified in your questions and concerns."

She offers a tentative smile before patting the cushion next to her. "Can we talk? I think we need to."

He nods, but his expression darkens slightly, his eyes growing stormy with some sort of cloudy turmoil. He sits next to her, his posture rigid, but he relaxes noticeably, almost melting into her touch, when she rests a hand on his shoulder.

"I read the letter," she admits to him, nodding at the page, now tented on the coffee table. "I'm sorry. I was worried about you, and it seemed like the letter was connected to all of this. I just...wanted to know what was going on."

Wyatt shrugs and then shakes his head before offering her a faint smile. "It's not a secret. And it _is_ your business, despite what I said earlier. You're right. That letter set me off. I'm sure you can see why." He looks tired and resigned, and it hurts her to see him looking so broken.

"I'm sorry," he utters immediately, the anguish apparent in his worried eyes. "I'm so sorry, Lucy. I just...I'm kind of a mess right now, and I was an ass, and you're the only thing that's keeping me sane. I know it's not fair for me to put that on you, but it's the truth. You're the best thing in my life, and the last thing I want to do is treat you like you're anything less than that. I'm sorry."

"What happened, Wyatt?" she questions, concerned.

"What exactly did they tell you?"

Lucy is confused. "Who?"

"When you got the call—about me. What exactly did they tell you?"

"I...I don't know," she admits softly. "I didn't really hear much of anything after the word 'injured.' When I saw that incoming call flashing across the screen...I thought you were dead. And for a moment, I saw my whole life without you and my world ended, Wyatt."

The tears are falling freely now, and she leans in as he reaches to catch them with his thumb. It's only after she manages to clear her own blurred vision that she realizes he's shedding tears of his own. "Wyatt," she whispers, paralyzed by the sight. Her heart throbs at the sight of this man, this extraordinarily strong man who treats her with such kindness and respect. It pains her to see this man who has loved her with his whole heart, mind, and soul, looking so undeniably lost and broken. It's like nothing she's ever seen from Wyatt, and the ache she feels as she watches him is unbearable.

"I lost them, Lucy," he chokes out, his breaths shallow and shaky as he tenses, his posture growing rigid beneath the crushing burden of this trauma. "I'm the only one who made it out. I left them behind. One of us had to get out. There was intel that needed to be communicated, and it was me or Zach. He said I was the one who needed to get out. He was already injured, so he told me I had the best shot of making it. And you know what? As much as I wanted to stay with him...with them...and fight, I wanted to get back to you more. I left them there to die. I made it out. I made it back to you. And I'm so thankful. I promised you I would come home to you. But Zach...the others. They're like ghosts in the back of my head. And no matter how hard I try, I can't lock them away. I can't keep them quiet."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Lucy asks in a hushed whisper, trembling at the very thought of the crushing despair he's been coping with.

"You had enough to deal with," he insists. "Between your mom's cancer and Amy's escapades and my injuries and your being stuck in North Carolina at a podunk school...because of me...I didn't want to heap something else on your plate."

"Okay, first off, I think you undercut Pembroke with the podunk bit because it's a perfectly good school. And secondly, I don't _ever_ want you to neglect your wellbeing for the sake of mine. You're carrying each of those burdens too," she points out gently. "Because I shared them with you. And you know what? They aren't nearly as taxing on me as they would be if I didn't have you to help me through them. Isn't that the point of this? Of us? Shouldn't we share our celebrations _and_ our trials? We don't have to do any of this alone. That's supposed to be the best part of all of it. I _want_ you to share these things with me."

He rubs his eyes tiredly, and his tone is resigned. "I've just asked so much of you, Lucy. Aren't you tired of doing the sacrificing?"

"Are you? You're the one who leaves home for months at a time to wander into some distant war zone where you're putting yourself at risk every single day. Seems like the least I can do is make the best of a good job at a second-tier school and make due with letters and the very occasional video chat or phone call."

He considers her words for a moment, and he's startled when he realizes just how much sense they actually make.

"Wyatt?"

He looks up. Her voice sounds hesitant. Her face looks it.

She pushes on. "I think you should talk to someone."

He surprises her by agreeing. "I'll talk to someone," he promises, his voice husky, his tone laden with waterlogged emotion. "But I need you to realize that you're my first priority. You're my _every_ priority. The things I said earlier…I was just pissed off and lashing out. I'm sorry, Lucy. I couldn't do any of this without you. I don't want to do any of this without you.

"You don't have to," Lucy assures him fervently. "I'm here. For all of it. You'll never have to do it on your own again."

* * *

It takes time, but he gets better.

He starts with cognitive behavioral therapy and regular appointments with a VA psychologist, and he makes a focused effort to keep the lines of communication open with Lucy. Gradually, over the course of several months, she is relieved to see the fading of the vacant stares, the flickering shadows of grief, and the paralyzing moments of fear. She sees more laughter, more engagement, and more clarity in a pair of blue eyes that look much more like the ones she remembers. It feels as though _her_ Wyatt is returning to her, piece by piece, each and every day.

So when she arrives home to his truck in the driveway of their darkened house at the end of a busy Friday, she feels her entire body jolt in a visceral reaction to the hauntingly familiar sight. She feels her stomach harden into a knot of whirling tension when she walks through the front door and into the dark house, and she feels her mouth go dry as she wonders what could possibly have happened to cause a setback when he's been doing so well.

And then she sees the candles.

"Welcome home, Lucy."

"God, Wyatt!" she exclaims breathlessly, her hand fluttering nervously over the thrum of her pounding heart. "You scared the hell out of me. I saw your truck and then I saw that the lights were all off, and I thought…"

He's standing in the dining room, obviously awaiting her arrival, and he eyes her curiously for a moment before realization ignites in his eyes. "Damn it, I'm sorry, Lucy. I didn't even think about…" He drops his voice, comforting her in a low and soothing tone. "I'm okay, Lucy. I promise you."

She nods slowly in response to his fervent reassurance and then gestures to the shadowy light of the dining room, asking, "Then what's with all this?"

The room is dim, and long flames dip and sway atop a pair of tall candlesticks. The table is set for dinner and a glass of red wine is waiting for her at her usual spot.

"A celebration."

She frowns, doing a mental scan of the events of the past several weeks, and she comes up empty. "Celebration of what?"

"This." He holds up a letter, but it's clear that this letter differs greatly from the last one in that it's prompting pride and excitement rather than guilt and sadness.

"And that is…?" she prods, mystified by his behavior.

He hands her the letter, and she immediately recognizes the cardinal lettering at the top of the page. "How did you…?"

"It fell on the floor when I bumped into your desk earlier. That whole mess of papers hit the ground actually. It was like an academic crime scene in there. Why didn't you tell me, Lucy? This is amazing."

"I was going to," she replies. "It just didn't seem particularly pressing since it's not going to happen. I actually forgot about it if I'm being honest."

Wyatt gestures to her chair, urging her to take a seat, and then he uncovers her plate to reveal a simple meal of chicken, rice, and steamed vegetables. He takes his seat next to her before he continues. "What do you mean it's not going to happen?"

"The timing isn't right. You're here. You're doing...better. Things are going really well for you. I certainly don't want us to have to become a bicoastal couple. And I'm fine at Pembroke for now."

"Fine," he repeats disdainfully, as though the word leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "I don't want you to just be _fine_ , Lucy. I want you to be great. Amazing. Brilliant. Fulfilled."

"So what exactly do you propose?" she queries, humoring him.

"I propose that you accept this offer. I propose that you go back to Stanford and build the kind of reputation you deserve. And I propose that I go with you."

She looks strained, like she can't possibly handle any more uncertainty, so he surges forward with his explanation to save her the agony of waiting. "There's an opportunity for a special assignment on a joint task force with the FBI. A counterterrorism unit that just happens to need an operator with my expertise. This is something I've been thinking about for awhile actually, and I'd already done some asking around before I even knew about your offer."

She cocks her head curiously, waiting for the real bomb to drop. "And?"

"It's in San Francisco, Lucy. We could finally go back to California. And you could take this job. At Stanford."

Lucy's brow is still furrowed and she's worriedly shaking her head, unconvinced. "But do _you_ want to go back to California? You've been out here for years now, Wyatt. I know you have your friends and it's become a home—"

He leans over the table, cutting her off with a quick, searing kiss that steals her breath and derails her train of thought. "The only thing that ever made this place a home was you," he insists. "You've sacrificed enough over the years. It's my turn to make a change and help you to achieve your goals. Let me do this for you. For us."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated.**


	6. Part Five

**PART FIVE**

 **Hey It's Good To Be Back Home Again**

* * *

 **~2016~**

It's been two months since he's been home.

It was supposed to be nearly three months, and he knows she's teaching a class this evening, so he's not surprised when he gets home to find the house dark. He also knows Lucy has been spending a lot of time over at Carol's house to help Amy take care of her. Carol has been in hospice for nearly three weeks now, and he's been terrified that Lucy would be forced to deal with her mother's passing without him, so he's relieved that his assignment ended much earlier than anticipated. It's easier now. His job is still demanding—it's risky and he still participates in dangerous operations on a regular basis. But he's got more flexibility, more control, and he's away for much shorter stretches of time.

He drops his duffel on the floor of their bedroom, knowing full well that he'll hear about it when they get home later that night, but he's too eager to see Lucy, to touch her and hold her, to worry about something as trivial as unpacking.

It's dark when he approaches the lecture hall. It's a late class, and the only sounds he hears as he ascends the stairs of the building are the chirps of crickets and the distant echo of Lucy's amplified voice.

He slides into one of the hard wooden chairs at the back of the cavernous hall, and watches with amusement as Lucy commands the attention of her students with all of the wit and charisma he knows and loves. He laughs right along with them when she cracks a joke about Lyndon Johnson's, well, _johnson_ , and he drinks in the beautiful sight of her in an effort to satiate his parched heart.

He rises from his seat as her lecture comes to a close, and he waits in the aisle for her to spot him through the bright beam of the projector as students pack up their belongings. It takes a moment for her to feel his gaze, but then she looks up, contorts her face into a twisted expression of confusion, and then smiles.

He's afraid she'll fall and crack her skull open if she attempts to traverse the long series of shallow stairs in her state of excitement, so he winds his way through the dense stream of exiting students, pushing against the current of bodies until he reaches her. He's not sure if she leaps or trips, but she's hurtling towards him at warp speed when he finally meets her halfway down the staircase and catches her around the waist, pulling her against him and spinning her out of the congested aisle before leaning down to kiss her, hard and fast.

"You're back?" she whispers reverently, her hands brushing softly over his face, like she's reading his features with her fingertips. "But you're not supposed to be back for another month." She leans in to kiss him once more, and then she pulls back to stare, like he's a mirage she doesn't quite believe in.

"Finished early," he remarks simply. "And I sure as hell wasn't going to sit at home and wait to see you."

"I'm glad you didn't," she tells him, her smile bright and appreciative. She sweeps a hand over his cheek and sighs, just absorbing the sight of him. "Got something for me?" she asks finally, her tone unusually cheeky.

He chuckles at her impatience and nods. "Don't I always?" He reaches into his pocket, pulling out the locket, and lifts it carefully over her head to let it fall to its rightful place around her neck.

"Welcome home, Soldier," she whispers, a sheen of sincerity in her bright eyes as she toys with the heavy charm.

He nods in acknowledgement. "Glad to be back, Professor."

She refuses to let go of him now that he's back, so they leave her car in the faculty parking lot and agree to retrieve it the next day. She holds his hand the whole way home, and he can feel the joy and excitement vibrating off her in tremulous waves as she babbles on about all of the goings-on during his absence. While her mother's grave condition is obviously a very somber topic, she enjoys telling him of Amy's latest shenanigans.

"She's crazy! I don't even know how we're related. She started a podcast called 'Amyable' and she just...talks." Lucy laughs, "I don't even know what it's supposed to be about. But people actually listen. They actually _subscribe_." She looks up at him aghast, and he just smiles, giving her hand an affectionate squeeze as he soaks it all in: the rambling, the feel of her hand in his, the comfort of being in his truck with her at his side, the familiar route home. It feels good.

Lucy continues, "Did I mention in my letters that she tested for her black belt last month? She has a black belt. _My_ sister. Can you imagine? I mean, think of _me_ in a karate class. It'd be a disaster!"

Wyatt snickers at that, and the snicker erupts to full-fledge guffaw when she smacks him playfully on the arm. "You're supposed to _pretend_ to disagree with me!"

"No, no!" Wyatt protests. "I think you should do it. Next time I'm gone, you can take up karate. Just don't do it until we double-check the out-of-pocket maximums on our insurance. I don't want you bankrupting us because you tried to break a board."

Lucy can't really argue the point, so she changes the subject. "But really. Amy is so fearless. I don't know where she got it. I certainly didn't inherit that particular trait."

Wyatt frowns and glances over at her before disagreeing. "Well, that's bullshit. Lucy, you're one of the most fearless people I know."

Lucy laughs wryly. "You're kidding, right?"

"No," Wyatt replies firmly. "I'm not. You dive into things with your whole heart. You don't hold back. And you're not afraid to make sacrifices for others. Not to mention the fact that you speak in front of hundreds of people on a regular basis. You realize public speaking is supposed to be terrifying, don't you?"

She smiles bashfully at the comment and then turns to watch the night blur by as they turn onto their street.

He remarks thoughtfully, "You know, on second thought, don't do the karate thing when I'm gone. Do it when I'm here. Video wouldn't be enough. I need to see the live show." He laughs then and laughs harder when he sees her level a glare in his direction.

He's still laughing as she rolls her eyes, huffing, "Jerk."

"You love me," he argues teasingly, lifting her hand and brushing his lips against her knuckles.

"I do," she admits begrudgingly. "And I'm so glad you're home.

* * *

Lucy is quick to change into jeans and a t-shirt when they arrive home, and she calls Amy to let her know that she won't be by for their weekly dinner after all while also checking on Carol.

"How's she doing?"

"Same as yesterday. And the day before."

"Are you sure you've got it covered?" Lucy wonders. "Wyatt and I can come over there and—"

"Lucy! I'm fine. Stop worrying about everyone else. Put yourself first once in awhile. Your super-hot husband is home after being away for months. Get back on that horse!"

"Okay...gross."

Amy giggles and continues, "Seriously though, Lucy. You work full-time. You're here every day. You have to hold down the fort all on your own when Wyatt's gone. Take the night to enjoy having your husband back. You can come back to reality tomorrow. I'm not going anywhere."

"You're the best," Lucy informs her. "Love you."

"I love you too," Amy responds. "Now go kiss your husband!"

They're both laughing when they hang up, and Lucy can feel some of the weight of her responsibilities lifting from her shoulders. She joins Wyatt downstairs when she's done, and she's about to order a pizza when the doorbell rings. She's nearest to the door, and he's pouring her a glass of wine, so she moves to answer it, her socked feet slipping slightly on the hardwood floor. She's surprised at the sight of the strange and stoic man waiting on the other side of the door, and she assumes he's there to see Wyatt.

"Lucy Preston? I'm Agent Kondo with Homeland Security."

"Oh, you must be looking for Wyatt," she assumes, her demeanor friendly and inviting. "Just one second—"

"No," he retorts in a clipped manner. "I'm here for you, Ms. Preston."

Skeptical, Lucy chuckles at the brusqueness of the man's delivery and at the stern expression on his face. "Look, whatever you're selling, I'm not buying, so…"

The man is undeterred. "Really. Agent Kondo. Homeland Security. Ms. Preston, you need to come with me."

There's no trace of humor in his tone, and she feels a tiny niggling sense of unease at his stoicism. She opens her mouth to respond when she feels Wyatt brush up against her shoulder, and feels his hand settle protectively at the small of her back. "What's this about?" he inquires politely.

"Sir, this doesn't concern you," Kondo answers dismissively.

"Uh, it sure as hell does concern me when you show up and demand to take my wife without answering any of her questions. Now what the hell is going on?"

"I'm under orders to bring Lucy Preston with me to assist with a matter of national security."

"Well, if your people have done any research on us at all, they'll know that I'm well-versed in matters of national security. She's a university professor. You're not putting her in danger without involving me."

Kondo sighs heavily. "They thought you were away—on special assignment," he admits. "Let me make a phone call."

"They? They who?" Lucy queries. She turns to him, worry and confusion on her face, and he reaches down to give her hand a squeeze.

"Don't look at me like that," he scolds her gently. "This is all some stupid mix-up. We'll get it sorted out. Unless, of course, you've been up to some seriously questionable activity since I've been gone, in which case we'll have to go on the lam." He nudges her gently and gives her a flirtatious wink. "I'd run with you."

She gives him a halfhearted smile and shrugs a shoulder. "I mean, I could see the government being less than thrilled with some of my lectures; I'm not exactly painting the bright and shiny picture of United States history, but I don't think I've said anything to threaten national security."

Agent Kondo returns moments later, the stern expression still firmly in place. "Master Sergeant Wyatt Logan, you may accompany us as well."

Wyatt narrows his eyes suspiciously before replying sarcastically, "Oh, can I? Really? How kind of you."

Lucy gives him a subtle elbow to the gut and glares scoldingly at him. "Maybe we should just see what this is all about, huh?"

* * *

She's wondering if she's in some kind of a fever dream by the time they're ushered into a dark and minimally decorated waiting room with no word on why they're there.

Wyatt drops casually onto the small couch, looking totally unconcerned, and raises an arm to invite her to sit. She drops into the space next to him, the dip of the cushion spilling her into his side, and she's annoyed when she looks up to find him reclined, his eyes closed.

"Are you _asleep?_ " she asks in disbelief.

She feels his fingertips rubbing idly against the back of her neck, and she knows the mindless motion is as comfortable to him as it is reassuring to her. "No, ma'am," he replies in his frustratingly-sexy rumble-tone...the one she _knows_ he uses just to drive her crazy.

She refuses to be diverted. "You _know_ how I feel about that. _Why_ don't you seem worried? Do you know what's going on?" she questions suspiciously.

"No, ma'am," he replies again, this time cracking an eye to reveal a sliver of blue before openly leering at her huffy expression and offering a lazy half-smile.

She socks him in the side and smiles triumphantly when he grunts and curls away from her balled fist, and then there's no time for him to respond or retaliate because in the next instant, the door opens and a petite woman with dark hair approaches them.

"Lucy Preston," the woman ascertains. She reaches out to shake Lucy's hand and introduces herself, "Agent Denise Christopher. Homeland Security. You've got a hell of a reputation. History. Anthropology. You're world class."

Lucy sees the proud smile on Wyatt's face, but she protests anyway, declaring humbly, "Not world-class. I'm just a teacher."

Agent Christopher turns without comment and fixes her attention on Wyatt. "And Master Sergeant Wyatt Logan. Delta Force?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Boy, speaking of reputations. Your colleagues speak very highly of you. I know the FBI is glad to be working with you. When we received Ms. Preston's name for this mission, we were surprised by the convenient coincidence of her husband being Special Forces. But then we thought you were still overseas. Looks like we had some faulty intel." She gives him an appraising look. "I understand you gave my agent a hell of a hard time."

Wyatt is unapologetic as he replies, "Well, with all due respect, ma'am, your agent showed up at my front door and tried to take my wife without so much as a single sentence of explanation. Given my occupation, I'm sure you can see how that might be of concern to me. Especially since Lucy has nothing to do with this line of work."

"Well, it's not exactly procedure for us to bring spouses in on highly classified projects," Agent Christopher admits, "and when we learned you were...away...we made other arrangements for...tactical support…"

"Tactical support?" Lucy interjects nervously, her eyes darting between Wyatt and the agent. "Look, I don't know what you people want from me, but I'm a _teacher_." She hooks a thumb over at Wyatt. "He's your guy. I don't know what I'm doing here. I teach. History. That's all."

"And we need a historian."

Wyatt breaks in, and Lucy can see that he's fed up with the smoke and mirrors. "How about you cut the crap and give us some damn answers. You're talking about needing tactical support for something you want Lucy to work on? What the hell is this? What could Homeland Security possible need with a historian?"

Lucy waves her thumb in Wyatt's direction once more. "What he said."

"Look, we're in a bit of a rush here, but follow me. Just...hold onto your asses."

* * *

Dead silence.

Agent Christopher replays the security footage, and they watch once more as this terrorist—this Garcia Flynn—climbs into the spherical...ship...which then disappears right before their very eyes.

"Ever heard of a closed timelike curve?" The question is delivered in accented English, and they both turn to see another man enter the room.

Wyatt recognizes the smarmy inventor immediately. "You're Connor Mason. My buddy has one of your cars."

Lucy feels like the earth is tilting beneath her feet as Connor Mason explains the very real science behind the very real existence of time travel. Before she knows it, she's walking blindly, not even aware of her feet hitting the ground as she and Wyatt are escorted to a massive atrium when a spherical metal ship is being lowered to the central platform. She thinks she might be in shock. This can't be real. It's impossible. And yet, what other explanation is there?

She can hear Connor explaining some of the logistics of the stolen ship and this rudimentary prototype, but it's the date and time scrolling by on one of the dozens of computer monitors that catches her eye.

"3:30 pm. May 6th. 1937," she reads. She doesn't even need to hear the address Agent Christopher recites to know exactly where this Garcia Flynn is supposedly headed. "That's the Hindenburg. About four hours before it crashed. You're telling me that this guy actually went back in time, for real, to _the_ Hindenburg?"

Connor cuts in on the conversation. "Lucy, if Flynn kills people in '37 who aren't supposed to die, they don't have the kids they're supposed to have, do the things they're supposed to do. History changes."

The conversation winds in circles until Agent Christopher finally suggests that she expects Lucy, and potentially Wyatt, to get into that machine and travel to 1937 to stop an actual terrorist. When they realize what's being asked of them, Lucy and Wyatt immediately turn to walk out of the building, hand-in-hand. But Agent Christopher catches up to them, and she knows just the right buttons to push.

"I would think someone who loves history would want to save it."

It's a cheap shot, but it hits its mark.

Lucy halts, giving Wyatt's hand a tug, and she turns around slowly, reluctantly. She can see Wyatt's trepidation out of the corner of her eye as she takes a breath and replies, "Tell me what I have to do."

* * *

After receiving a more detailed rundown of the mission, Agent Christopher had agreed to leave Lucy and Wyatt alone in a conference room to discuss things privately.

Wyatt can't believe she's even considering it. He knows she's got a stubborn streak a mile wide, and he knows she's got a streak of integrity that stretches ten times wider, but this is _crazy._

"What are you thinking, Lucy?! You're not trained for this!" he protests.

"And you are?!" she exclaims. "Tell me, how _was_ your last flight through time? Did you have the peanuts? Were they at least honey-roasted?"

He tries another angle. "We don't know anything about this...spaceship. I'm going to go out a limb and say the United States government isn't exactly regulating the safety of time-travel."

"So it's okay for you to climb into that machine, but it's not okay for me?"

"Don't try to turn me into some anti-feminist jerk, Lucy. That's not fair. I don't want to climb into that thing either. And you can't get mad at me for wanting you, my _wife_ and the love of my life, to be safe!"

She crosses her arms over her chest and raises her chin defiantly. "Well, you can't be mad at me for wanting to preserve history—something I know and love probably more than just about anyone. Not to mention the potential repercussions of what they're talking about. Wyatt, we're not just talking about a guy who's going to go and kill people. That's bad enough. We're talking about a guy who could potentially kill people and completely disrupt the world as we know it. These people could be the grandparents or the great-grandparents of important figures alive today. Flynn could alter reality as we know it if he so much as interrupts the wrong conversation. The domino effect could be catastrophic."

"Or it could change things for the better," he claims contrarily.

Heaving a sigh, Lucy steps forward and places her hands on either side of his face, pinning him with a plaintive gaze. "Aren't you always telling me that your job is worth the risk because it gives you the chance to use your skills and talents for the greater good? Well, how often does someone like me get that kind of opportunity? I'm a historian, Wyatt. Not a soldier or a scientist or an engineer. I have the chance to save the history that I've spent my life studying. You really think I can turn my back?"

Frustrated, Wyatt sucks in a breath and grits his teeth. He's known Lucy for thirteen years. He's been a relationship with her for ten. He knows a losing battle when he sees one. He's staring one dead in the face right now.

When they return to Agent Christopher and officially agree to help, Wyatt has just one condition. "I go where she goes," he states, his tone deadly.

Agent Christopher nods. "Deal."

* * *

They're each whisked off to separate locker rooms where small teams work frantically to put together vaguely era-appropriate ensembles to help them blend during their travels. Wyatt's attire is relatively simple, so he's done first. In spite of the unspeakable tumult of the evening, Wyatt can't help but smile when Lucy clunks down the metal stairs in her 1937 getup, looking adorable in a plaid coat and a beret. He rolls his eyes knowingly when he hears her griping about the authenticity, or lack thereof, of her attire.

"—they didn't even have underwire bras…"

Wyatt intercepts her, offering a hand to guide her down the last few stairs. "Who the hell _else_ is going to see your bra?" he questions pointedly. "I promise, Lucy. Your secret's safe with me."

He smiles winningly as she sends him a withering glare, but she's quick to take his offered hand. He gives a gentle squeeze and feels the slight release of tension as her fingers relax against his. He watches her searchingly and sees the frantic darting of her eyes, especially when she spots the tight space within the spherical vessel everyone keeps calling "The Lifeboat."

Wyatt helps her scramble awkwardly into the open hatch of the time machine and they both fumble clumsily as they get settled into the small space. They're nervous. This is totally uncharted territory for both of them. The time-travel, sure. But the very concept of such a mission with such an objective—it's totally foreign to Lucy. And Wyatt? Well, Wyatt has been in this type of situation hundreds of times, but he's never had Lucy at his side for the duration. It's terrifying.

Once they're seated, they exchange introductions with Rufus, the pilot, who looks about as confident and as excited about being there as they feel.

Rufus begins pressing buttons and flipping switches, and the time machine begins to hum as the hatch hisses to a close.

Settling back into her seat, Lucy picks up the ends of her seatbelt and assesses the various straps and buckles, realizing the complexity of the design. "Are all these seatbelts really necessary?" she wonders aloud.

"Oh, yeah," Rufus answers with an ominous ripple in his tone. "You'll see."

Wyatt leans in and begins securing the various straps around her when the glinting on her left hand catches his eye.

"Wait...your ring. Should you be wearing it?" He glances down at his own hand. "Should I be wearing mine?"

"Oh, so _that's_ a concern," she returns dryly, still miffed about his bra remark. "So we can't be married in 1937 because _that's_ unbelievable?" She gives him a teasing grin. "You looking to get lucky in 1937? We're still going to be married even if we go back to before we got married. Let's just set that ground rule right here and now."

Wyatt smirks and opens his mouth to deliver a flirty response when Rufus interjects.

"Wait," he breaks in. "You two are _married_?"

They both nod wordlessly, the bobbing of their heads perfectly synchronized.

"Well, great." Rufus turns back around and mutters dejectedly, "Now I'm the third wheel in literally _every_ aspect of my life. At least _that's_ a familiar feeling no matter the year."

* * *

The look of utter enchantment on Lucy's face as they make their way down the busy New Jersey street is almost worth the chaos and the motion sickness. He watches her as she turns slowly, breathing in every sensory bit of the scene, and he gives her the moment he knows she needs. But the mission calls, and he is forced to redirect her with a gentle reminder. "Come on, Professor. Let us know what we're walking into."

Things seem to be going as well as can be expected for the first several hours. They manage to gather intel from a journalist they meet at a local bar, and they arrive at the airfield in time to see the Hindenburg landing. Safely.

That's not supposed to happen. And according to Lucy, it's not good.

Baffled by the unexpected outcome, they relocate to an empty hangar, where he and Lucy find themselves at odds due to their conflicting priorities. His mission? To eliminate Garcia Flynn—no matter the cost. Hers? To preserve history—no matter the cost. She's pissed off that he was reckless enough to bring a modern gun to 1937. He's pissed off that she's willing to prevent the accomplishment of their mission all in the name of historical accuracy.

He and Lucy have argued _plenty_ of times over the years, but they've never experienced a situation that has required them to put core parts of their respective identities in direct opposition with one another. Her love for history has never conflicted with his appreciation for a clear mission objective. It's new territory for both of them.

He's also pretty sure that Rufus is _really_ feeling that third-wheel awkwardness by now. The three of them are working through an unconventional rotation of arguing, worrying, and brainstorming, when they're interrupted by a sudden outcry of "Hands up! Stay right where you are!"

And then the police show up.

* * *

Lucy isn't sure if it's the sight of their wedding rings or the fact that officers are overtly racist and had noticed she and Wyatt share the same skin color, but she feels just the tiniest bit of relief at the fact that the two of them are locked in the same jail cell. She's still pissed at him over the gun. She knows he's the seasoned expert of the group when it comes to covert operations, but she also knows that _she's_ the seasoned expert when it comes to the norms and customs of the time period. She watches as the moronic police officer fiddles curiously with the pistol, and then she gives Wyatt a pointed look. He sighs tiredly at the sight of the familiar expression. He's quite familiar with piercing sting of the Lucy-Preston-I-Told-You-So-Glare.

She's standing against the bars of the cell, purposely maintaining her distance, when he catches himself giving her a once-over. She really does look like she was made for the fashion of the era, and his admiring gaze grows a bit distant as he lets his thoughts wander. Lucy spots the appreciative pan and releases a disbelieving huff of indignance. It isn't until she crosses her arms impatiently over her chest that the solution becomes obvious to him.

"Psssst."

She turns to him, annoyed by his nonchalance given the relatively disastrous circumstances, when he whispers, "I know how to get out."

She widens her eyes comically, waiting for him to elaborate, and then she watches, confused, as he lets his eyes fix very pointedly on her chest.

"Your bra," he whispers. "Your _modern_ bra."

Her face brightens with understanding, and she nods, immediately moving to the back of the cell to begin unbuttoning her blouse. Wyatt takes her place next to the barns, and hisses at Rufus, who's twiddling his thumbs idly in the next cell.

"Make. A. Distraction," Wyatt whispers.

Rufus is hesitant at first, but he manages to distract the racist ass of an officer—first with a reasonable request for a glass of water, which is soundly refused, and then with an impassioned speech about black guys named Michael that leaves Lucy and Wyatt both staring wordlessly, mouths agape. They snap to attention when the furious officer disappears down the long corridor, Rufus watching fretfully, wondering what consequences he's going to face for his outburst.

Lucy immediately undoes the last few buttons of her shirt, and Wyatt watches impatiently, his hand held out expectantly.

"Uh…hey...uh...what exactly is she doing?" Rufus stammers nervously when he sees Lucy tugging her blouse off of her shoulders. "Oh God, don't tell me this is some kind of weird fetish for the two of you…"

"Turn around!" Wyatt hisses to him as Lucy yanks the blouse off her arms and deftly unclasps her bra. "And keep your back turned, Rufus!

"No worries there," Rufus simpers in response. "I'm not looking to make this day any weirder than it already is."

With the wire from Lucy's bra, Wyatt manages to free them from their cells, and Rufus narrowly avoids the 1937 version of police brutality at the hands of a group of decidedly racist police officers. As they're running from the station, headed in the direction of the air field, Rufus glances over to see Lucy and Wyatt sprinting hand-in-hand, matching expressions of fierce determination on both of their faces.

Through his huffing breaths, he remarks, "You two must have had one hell of an exciting honeymoon."

* * *

He's not exactly sure how he feels about being in the field with Lucy.

Half of him is horrified. It's _Lucy_. She's sweet and stubborn and smart, but she's no soldier. She's always been the antidote to the harsh realities of his job. She's always been his haven.

The other half of him is impressed as hell. Sure, she's green. She babbles uncontrollably and she's fixated on the minutiae of the mission. But she doesn't rattle easily, she thinks on her feet, and she's able to provide a to-the-minute play-by-play of the entire Hindenburg disaster.

He thinks maybe they might actually pull this off when they make it back to the airfield and manage to get on board the Hindenburg to stop it from leaving. But then all hell breaks loose, and there's fire and screaming and falling and confusion, and the only thing he can think of is finding Lucy. Making sure Lucy is safe.

So he feels the breath rush from his body when he makes it out of the burning wreckage of the airship, only to see Lucy standing with Garcia Flynn. He feels his heart stop when he raises his gun, only to watch Flynn grab her, holding her like a human shield to keep Wyatt from shooting. The look of terror in her eyes is almost his undoing, and her soft cry of his name nearly causes him to crumble from the inside out. This is unprecedented territory for him. He's well-trained and objective-driven. He knows how to remove emotions from the equation, and he understands the importance of making fact-based decisions based on the circumstances in the moment.

He does not know how to do these things when the love of his life is the thing that hangs in the balance. He doesn't know how to separate emotion from the sight of fear in Lucy's eyes. He doesn't know how to make a fact-based decision when the fact is that the achievement of his objective means risking the life of his wife.

"I know you won't shoot," Flynn assures him smugly.

And he's right.

It could be anyone else. _Anyone else_ and Wyatt Logan would shoot without even a hint of hesitation. But Lucy Preston is not _anyone._

He takes his finger off the trigger and raises both hands in the air, entreating the other man gruffly, "Just leave her out of this."

There's a sudden softness in Flynn's expression—something that looks a little bit like understanding. And then, as quickly as it had flashed in his eyes, it's replaced by annoyance as he hisses, "Damn it!" and shoves Lucy forcefully in Wyatt's direction. "She's already in this," he yells over his shoulder before slinking into the crowd and darting through the compressed bunch of frantic onlookers.

Wyatt turns to Lucy, frantic with worry. "Are you okay?!" he yells over the din of the disaster around them. He yanks her into a hug, and he can feel her nodding shakily against him.

"Let's just get Rufus and get out of here."

* * *

They arrive back to Mason Industries and sit through countless hours of debriefing, something he's done millions of times, and he's surprised when he notices a smug sharpness, an edge, to Lucy. Like when she's winning at Monopoly.

They take a short break, and they're standing near the water cooler when Wyatt finally has to satisfy his curiosity. "Are you...enjoying this?" he whispers disbelievingly, horror in his gaping expression.

"It's sort of like a dissertation defense!" she explains with hushed excitement. "It really gets the adrenaline going!"

"We just traveled to 1937, spent time on the Hindenburg, watched it burn, and then faced off with a known terrorist...and _this_ is the adrenaline-pumping moment for you?" he hisses back. "Congratulations, Major Nerd. You've just been promoted to Lieutenant Colonel Nerd. Keep it up. At this rate, you'll be General of the Nerds in no time at all."

They're finally released within the hour, and they walk shoulder-to-shoulder, each still a little shell-shocked after all that they've seen, learned, and experienced. They're passing through the parking lot when she bumps him gently with her shoulder.

"Hey," she says softly.

He glances over at her, a questioning kink in his brow, waiting for her to continue.

"When Flynn had a hold of me—one easy shot and you could have blown his brains out."

"And?" he prods, a bit resistant to the point she's making.

"Were you afraid to take the shot or did you think I would feel like I was expendable?"

He's silent for several moments as they walk a few more steps. Then he stops and turns to face her.

"I guess I'm just not as fearless when it's my wife whose life is on the line," he admits gruffly. "When it's you, it's...different. I guess it's something I have to get used to."

"I trust you, Wyatt. Completely. You know that, right? Next time? Take the shot."

* * *

They're both exhausted when they get home, and Lucy is surprised to see that she has six missed calls from her mother's house. Fearing the worst, she returns the call to check in with Amy.

She sits on the edge of their king-sized bed, her toes tapping an agitated rhythm against the floor as she waits for Amy to pick up.

"Lucy! Thank God! You didn't show up for dinner tonight and I feared the worst."

The voice that she hears is _not_ Amy's, but it _is_ one she knows like she knows her own reflection in the mirror. The tone is familiarly overbearing and more than a little bit scolding. Shocked at the sound of it, Lucy drops the phone. It clatters loudly to the floor, and Wyatt appears in the doorway, alarmed. "Lucy?" he questions.

She shakes her head wordlessly, and then reaches for the phone, feeling blindly around the floor because she can't see through the thick curtain of tears in her eyes. Finally, she presses the phone to her ear. "Mom?"

Wyatt moves to sit next to her on the bed, and he drops a soothing hand to her knee, giving it a squeeze as she continues the conversation.

Carol is huffy and impatient as she responds,"Yes, of course it's me. Where were you tonight? We were supposed to have dinner. Don't tell me Wyatt had to duck out for work again. Lucy, I warned you against marrying a military man."

"But...but..that's impossible. You...you were…" Realization strikes suddenly and she asks, "Where's Amy?"

"What? What is going _on_ with you?" Carol sounds genuinely confused. "You're not making any sense."

"Amy!" Lucy grates out. "Let me talk to Amy!"

And then her greatest fear is confirmed.

"Lucy, who's Amy?"

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated.**


	7. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

 **And Your Love in my Life is Like Heaven to Me**

* * *

 **~2018~**

They're in bed when the call comes.

The past two years have been an utter whirlwind. Everything they didn't understand about that first night—the night of the Hindenburg—has slowly fallen into place. Benjamin Cahill and Carol had pulled countless strings to get Lucy onto the team, in a misguided effort to save Carol's life and turn Lucy into a Rittenhouse operative before ever revealing her Rittenhouse ties. What they _hadn't_ counted on was Wyatt. They hadn't counted on Wyatt being there when Agent Kondo showed up on their doorstep looking for Lucy. That had thrown a wrench in things. It's since become very clear that Wyatt was never meant to be a part of the team, and Rittenhouse has gone out of their way to try and eliminate him without jeopardizing their mission and without harming Lucy. Now, with the loose-cannon Rittenhouse protégée, Emma Whitmore leading the charge and piloting the Mothership, their lives have grown even more chaotic, something they never imagined could be possible.

The increasingly personal nature of the mission had been both their greatest motivation and their greatest weakness. Wyatt had nearly gotten himself permanently benched by Homeland Security when he had stolen the Lifeboat to try and get Amy back. To this day, it's the angriest Lucy has ever been with him. Sure, she loves him for taking such a huge risk to do something to make her happy. But, as she had reminded him shrilly upon his safe arrival back from his failed effort, she could have lost him or he could have altered their precious collective history. And there had been _major_ demands placed on him as he worked to make amends for his actions.

Flynn, as it turns out, had been on the right side of things all along. Unfortunately, the United States government had been a little less inclined to overlook what they saw as traitorous behavior even from a man grieving the murder of his family. As far as they know, he's currently in custody awaiting trial for his crimes.

Agent Christopher is waiting when they arrive, her energy nervous and agitated. Jiya, who has become one of the most integral cogs in the time-travel machine, is beside her, and she looks just as antsy.

"What is it?" Lucy questions immediately, her tone urgent, as she makes her way over to the bay of computers.

"She's jumped again," Agent Christopher confirms.

"Where?" Wyatt doesn't miss a beat.

Jiya slides into an open seat in front of a monitor and taps a few keys before confirming, "Capitola. 1974."

Rufus releases a breath and raises a fist triumphantly. "Thank you, Emma!"

Jiya frowns at him. "You're excited to chase a terrorist back through time?"

"I'm _excited_ that we're headed to a time period in the post-civil rights era," he replies stoutly. He shrugs before adding, "And also, you know, the beach."

Lucy is in full analytical mode, and the wheels of her brain are whirring at full-speed. "What could she possibly want in Capitola? I can't think of anything or anyone of major consequence in that location at that time."

"That's what you're going to find out," Agent Christopher asserts. "She's got a solid head start. You need to get moving."

"You ready?" Wyatt glances over at Lucy.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Surf, sand, kitschy shops." Rufus chimes in. "Let's do this. And maybe we can grab some pizza on the way home."

* * *

She tugs half heartedly at her wedding rings and rubs at the stone, feeling calmed by the press of it against the pad of her thumb. In their extensive time-travel experiences, they've long since realized that it's much easier to invent aliases and backstories on the spot if they don't have to account for obvious things like wedding rings. She heaves a sigh as she places it in the small velvet box she keeps on the top shelf of her locker. She hates this part. Hates that they have to leave all signs of their current reality behind. She hates it because it's a reminder that her current reality isn't the _only_ reality. She knows that there's a very real possibility that one day she might return from a jump to find that the ring is gone and her marriage to Wyatt has been erased, with nothing but the faint smudges of their shared memories left as evidence that it ever existed. She can't fathom such a world.

She's so immersed in her own cycle of fear that she doesn't hear Wyatt when he comes into the empty locker room. She jumps at the sudden sound of his voice.

"Stop."

His hands are on her waist then, and she feels the familiar weight of his chin resting on her shoulder. "Your thoughts are echoing against these tile floors and if you don't relax, I'm afraid that kink in your eyebrow will never go away.

"We've been lucky," she reminds him. "One of these days…"

"It doesn't matter," he interrupts. "Because you and I are both going to be in that time machine, which means we're both going to know what's real."

"But is it?"

His chin lifts from her shoulder, and she feels his hands squeezing at her waist, turning her to face him. He's watching her, confusion and concern storming in his eyes.

"Is it what?"

"Is it real?"

He can see the earnestness in her face, hear it in her voice, as she asks the questions, and he waits for her to elaborate.

"We've known so many timelines. We know how delicate time actually is. Who's to say what's real? Who's to say this isn't just one of a million other timelines? Who's to say that our being together isn't just an anomaly in this one?"

He's quiet for a long moment. His eyes are fixed above her own piercing gaze, and she watches as they sweep downward, flitting lightly from one freckle to the next, mapping her face from top to bottom. He meets her gaze once more, his eyes gleaming with steely certainty.

"You and I are real." His tone is as smooth and unyielding as marble — not a crack or divot to be found. He lifts his hands to her upper arms and rubs soothingly, the way he does, and he continues, "I don't know what's real when it comes to timelines. After all of the shifts and the changes we've seen, you have to wonder if there _is_ a real timeline. Maybe they're all real. Maybe none of them are. But you and I? This? This is real. Everything can shapeshift around us, and it'll still be you, me, and Rufus left standing, okay? Don't doubt us for a second."

She gives him a weak but appreciative smile at his words, and her smile grows stronger when he leans down to press a kiss to her forehead.

"Are you two ready?" Agent Christopher calls from the doorway. "We're on a schedule here. Emma has got almost an hour on you."

"We'll be there in a minute," Wyatt calls back, his eyes never leaving Lucy's.

* * *

Less than ten minutes later, she's following Wyatt into the Lifeboat wearing a loudly patterned shirt dress. She's fiddling nervously with her locket—the one that now holds photos of her with Amy and with Wyatt—while Rufus is busy completing all of the necessary pre-jump checks, and she smiles when Wyatt leans over to buckle her tangle of seat belts.

He leans forward until she can feel the scrape of his stubble against her cheek, and she can _feel_ the comfortable hum of his voice in her ear. "Come on, Lucy. You've got this."

He's back in his seat within seconds, his knees bumping against hers. It might be a nuisance if not for the fact that it's a constant reminder that he's right there with her. It's just the reminder she needs. " _We've_ got this," she proclaims softly, confidently as he buckles his own seatbelts. He gives her a tender smile and nods.

"July 25th, here we come," Rufus announces. "I hope 1974 was a good year for summer beach weather."

Lucy feels her entire body seize at his declaration, and she looks at Wyatt, wild-eyed, before turning back to Rufus. "What did you say?" Her voice is tight, like her vocal-chords are clenched as well, and it feels like she's having to force the words into existence.

Rufus gives her an odd look. "July 25th," he repeated. "Where we're going? What? Did you forget to pack your sunscreen?"

"July 25th, 1974," she repeats once more.

Wyatt has been watching the exchange with a perplexed look on his face, but the awareness is sharp in his expression when the realization hits. Lucy's hand appears in front of him. He takes it and gives it a squeeze, willing all of the warmth and adoration and affection he feels for her to be passed through his fingers to hers. She looks at him with awestruck wonder, clearly recognizing the significance of the date.

July 25, 1974. The telegram. The telegram that mentions things only he would know about his life. He's headed to the very date it was written. His thoughts are swimming, buzzing in his brain as he tries to make sense of the development. He and Lucy had brought the document to Mason Industries shortly after being introduced to the reality of time travel, but they had never been able to ascertain the original sender _or_ that person's motivation for sending it, and after the truth about Rittenhouse had come to light, they'd been urged to keep its existence quiet.

The telegram is in an old cigar box on the top shelf of their closet, amongst a small collection of treasures: his mother's strand of pearls, Grandpa Sherwin's dog tags, and some old black and white photos from his mom's side of the family. He hasn't looked at it in quite some time, mostly because he hasn't needed to. Everything in the telegram has come true. He has everything in life that he could possibly want or need.

The telegram has never made any sense to him. And now, fifteen years later, it finally does. He and Lucy have both talked about how their lives have often felt like little more than a series of familiar loops—that they always seem to end up back where they started. What they hadn't realized is that their loops are intertwined: they're two separate entities on traveling on eternally linked orbits, fated to cross paths and synchronize their movements. They are, as Grandpa Sherwin had once proclaimed, destined.

He doesn't know what prompted another version of him to send the telegram, but he knows that it led him to her. It saved both their lives.

He's never believed in fate, but once again, that tattered slip of paper has him wondering.

Lucy is watching him, beautiful as ever, with warm devotion in her eyes.

"You ready for this?" she asks softly.

He nods, more certain than ever that he's exactly where he's meant to be.

"Ready as I'll ever be."

* * *

 **END**

 **That's all, folks! Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little labor of love.**


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